Minutia
by wild wolf free17
Summary: [anthology] Various drabbles. Some are cute, some are angsty, some are speculation, some are AU. Some are het, some are slash, some are gen. Each has their own rating and warnings.
1. Possession

**Each of these will come with warnings and/or notes.**

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* * *

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**Title**: Possession 

**Fandom**: "Supernatural" 

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. 

**Warnings**: Spoilers for "Skin," "Asylum," "Nightshifter," and "Born Under A Bad Sign" 

**Pairings**: nada 

**Rating**: PG 

**Wordcount**: 285

* * *

See, the thing is—it wasn't Dean's body kicking the shit out of Sam. It was someone assuming the shape, stealing the _skin_—but not his blood or his bones or his mind. 

But the demon—it _wore_ Sam's body and sometimes he remembers how it felt to break Dean's face with his hand. 

They never talk about it, either of them, though sometimes they both think they should. But to speak of it, they'd have to acknowledge it, and if it's acknowledged, it becomes true. 

Dean didn't kick the shit out of Sam, didn't torment him. Didn't shoot him six times, once with a real bullet. 

But Sam did _all_ that to Dean, and sometimes he closes his eyes and sees it all again. He's never apologized, not since that first attempt when Dean shut him up with a look. Sam wants to beg forgiveness but Dean won't listen. 

They both know they should talk about it. But the words build and build, behind walls of sheetrock, and neither will bend beneath the load, will break the strained silence. They've been hurt too many times, shattered and torn, mended with tattered thread and pieced together with soiled bandages. Neither can take much more pain, but the world will still lob more their way. 

Sometimes Dean wonders if he was built for anything but hurt, and sometimes Sam wonders how long till Dean snaps—and if Dean breaks, what will become of him? 

But they just continue their quest, their trek across the country, one step ahead of the FBI, barely in front of the hunters, unsure of where The Demon is. 

It wasn't Dean's body, but it _was_ Sam's, and the memories haunt them both. 


	2. Deals with the Devil

**Title**: Deals with the Devil

**Disclaimer**: the boys, their daddy, their daddy's friends, and the yellow-eyed demon/man/monster aren't mine. The creepy-ass lady is, though.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot, "Asylum," "Scarecrow," "Faith," "Devil's Trap," "In My Time Of Dying," "Everybody Loves A Clown," and "Born Under A Bad Sign." Probable AU. Rampant and gleeful misuse of _and_.

**Pairings**: nada, really

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 710

* * *

_I want…_

_What? You have to say the words._

_I…_

_Say it. And it becomes true._

_I don't want Dean to ever leave me. Never ever._

_And if he does?_

_He hurts. He hurts like I would._

_Done._

o0o

Sam doesn't remember making the wish. He doesn't remember the woman with flaming red hair or dark forest-green eyes or ivory skin. He doesn't remember that night when he was seven years old and she appeared in his dream and asked what he wanted most in the world.

He doesn't remember for a decade-and-a-half.

And after he remembers… he can't forget.

o0o

On a night full of anger, they both say things they regret. Dean is hurting—inside and out—and Sam keeps pushing long after he knows he should stop. He shoves hard, and it's not even Dean he's pissed at.

It's _never_ Dean he's pissed at, but Dean still always bears the brunt of his fury anyway.

And on that night—still aching from the asylum and Sam's half-assed apology and Dad's complete _lack_ of an apology—Dean drives away. First time he's ever left Sam. Ever.

And Sam, watching him go, almost imagines a woman asking, _And if he does?_

o0o

On a night like any other, familiar and calming, they hunt a rawhide. He's trapped some kids in a house and they chase after him fully prepared.

Sam gets the children out, leaving Dean to deal with the monster. Their usual parts. Nothing new.

Except something goes horribly, terribly, desperately wrong.

And running down those old rickety stairs, throwing himself by Dean's side, not hearing his breath—an ache forms in Sam's heart, a chasm opens in his soul, and later he'd nearly swear he heard a little boy say, _He hurts like I would_.

o0o

After Dean wakes up from his coma and Dad dies and they're broken into so many pieces they'll never be made whole again(_seventeen times_), Sam starts dreaming.

They're not visions of the future, he doesn't think, but of the past. There's a woman—flaming red hair, dark forest-green eyes, pale ivory skin—with lips crimson as blood. She's tall, tall as Dean at least, and thin. Like a living skeleton, skin and bones.

She's terrifying, grinning madly, and he tries to back away but there's nowhere to go.

"We made a bargain, remember, Samuel? I granted you a wish and you swore to play a game with me." Her voice is the roar of the ocean, the wind rushing through a canyon, an avalanche rumbling down a mountain. He flinches from the sound and she smiles.

Each dream progresses further, and it gets harder to wake up.

o0o

"He should have died, Samuel."

And then one night, it starts a different way.

"He's dead three times over, yet still walking and talking and _hurting_. Because you couldn't bear to be alone."

She stalks closer, grabs his face with her cold hands, digs her sharp nails into his cheeks.

"Remember, boy," she hisses and presses her dry lips to his. "Remember or it's no fun at all."

o0o

He wakes at Bobby's cabin, three weeks after that fucking demon crawled out of Hell and possessed him.

And he can't escape the memory of _her_ coming to him and what he asked for—

"No," he whispers. "Oh, God, _no_."

Dean's rattling around the kitchen, talking to Bobby and bile rises in Sam's throat, his stomach churns, and he hears her say, _I gave you your heart's desire little boy. So now we play._

And suddenly, everything changes, shifts, and the world darkens a hue.

_You're mine, Sammy_, she chortles, and he hears Dean cry out. _I've stolen you out from under his nose. Oh, the fun we'll have._

"No," he whispers again.

_Dean can't die, Samuel, though he'll wish he could. You saw to that sixteen years ago. _He feels her cold fingers on his face. _And this game, my dear, is that neither can **you**._

She appears before him in the same moment Dean bursts into the room. "My brother has sought soldiers of your caliber his whole existence," she says, covering them both in a glance from her dark eyes. "And now, you two are _mine_."

She laughs and the sound rolls over them like ocean waves.


	3. Lie

**Title**: Lie

**Disclaimer**: the yellow-eyed man, John, Mary, Dean, and Sam aren't mine.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot  
**Pairings**: John/Mary  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Wordcount**: 880

* * *

_It's only a lie if someone believes you…_

o0o

Mary said her brother died when she was five and her mother the very next year. She said her father tried his best, but he just couldn't deal with it.

John talked about his older siblings, twins—Nancy and David. He thought the sun rose and set on them. Nancy hugged him when he joined the marines and Dave clapped him on the back; they both swore they'd only been prouder when he graduated high school. John talked about his parents, married for nigh on thirty years and still going strong, how they were the best he could've hoped for.

Mary wed him five months after he asked, and said she loved him, that she wanted to be with him forever. She didn't mention the Man with golden eyes who followed her everywhere, who licked His lips when she glanced His way, who smirked from the corner while Dean was conceived.

John smiled throughout the ceremony, unable to take his gaze away from his beautiful girl, the most gorgeous person he'd ever laid eyes on. He loved her laugh and her smile, and the way she grinned just for him whenever he started rambling about cars or planes or his plans for their shared future.

Mary sobbed when Dean slid from her womb, wailing and howling and announcing to all the world that he'd finally arrived. She knew that John thought it was because of the pain—aching and burning and searing, so deep inside she knew she'd feel it for years—but it was really because of the Man, smirking in the corner, tapping His watch and mouthing, _Time's up. _

John cried tears of love and relief and complete adoration as he held his son for the first time, and he didn't care who knew. He had the perfect wife and the perfect boy, and his dreams for tomorrow were looking closer by the second. He smiled down at the newborn in his arms, at the tiny face scrunched up adorably, and then looked over at Mary, who'd slipped into sleep.

Mary begged Him for mercy, for time, for life. _Just a few years_, she pled, throwing herself at His feet, looking up at Him through her golden hair and dark lashes. His eyes burned as He gazed down at her, tapping His chin with a finger.

_And what will you give me that is not already mine?_ He finally asked.

_Anything you want_, she promised and He smiled.

John brought his wife and son home from the hospital on a gorgeous winter day. He sang along to the radio the whole way, unable to contain his joy.

Mary went home from the hospital silently, unsure if her deal would work, or even if it was worth it, but she looked over at John, so gorgeously happy, and knew it would have to do.

She only hoped the yellow-eyed Man didn't know who He was playing with.

The night Sam was conceived, Mary looked for Him everywhere, but didn't see Him. _Maybe_, she thought, wrapped up in John's arms, _He's lost interest, moved on_.

Mary didn't see him for over a year, not until she rushed up the stairs screaming her secondborn's name and burst into the nursery.

"Time's up," He said.

"Please," she begged and He reached out to touch her chin.

"I've given you a lifetime, Daughter. I could have taken you when I took your mother, but I allowed you life. I've granted you two fine sons and more happiness than most will ever know."

She glanced over at Sammy in his crib, content and peaceful, and she thought of Dean asleep in his room and John asleep downstairs.

"You swore yourself to Me, Daughter," He whispered, pressing His lips to her brow. "And your mother before you. You are Mine."

"You'll leave my family alone?" she demanded, settling on anger and righteousness.

He laughed. "Your husband, yes—if he doesn't make himself a nuisance." In the scant light of Sammy's room, His smile was wicked. "But your sons—oh, no, Daughter. Like you, they belong to Me."

She shook her head, closed her eyes. "We made a deal, Mary. I let you go, let you have a life… and you follow Me, wherever it is I lead."

He backed away, stood by Sammy's crib. "However, My dear," He said, "if you renege—I take both your sons and leave you here."

"No," she hissed, stepping forward. "Leave them with John."

He smiled. "Very well, Daughter. Let us depart."

And Mary died, carved and burning, laughing inside where He couldn't hear, because, after everything—she'd won. She was her mother's daughter as much as her father's, and Sam was protected by her blood.

But it wasn't Sam who truly caused her joyous triumph—it was Dean, who was his father's through and through, who would succeed where countless others had failed—

Because Mary, that night Dean was conceived, had cheated and called upon her mother's goddess for aid.

_Go after him with everything in You_, Mary howled silently with her final breath, _and You still cannot touch him. And he will guard Sammy to his last moment_.

o0o

_And it's only cheating if you get caught.  
_


	4. Solitaire

**Title**: Solitaire  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: Neither of them beautiful Winchester boys is mine. Is that not worthy of an _alas_?  
**Warnings**: none  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 100

* * *

The whole point of solitaire is playing alone. But still, sometimes he picks up the deck of cards and looks around for the other half that's gone and left him behind, expecting a spontaneous poker match but—

The bastard.

The _bastard_.

Is gone.

And won't be coming back. So he sorts the cards and he plays alone and sometimes, when he looks up, he almost sees—

But it's _always_ an illusion. It'll _always_ be an illusion. So he deals the cards, and he sips the beer, and he carries on a conversation with someone who's not there.

And he waits. 


	5. Morality

**Title**: Morality

**Disclaimer**: none of 'em are mine.  
**Warnings**: AU, I'd betcha. Character death, though I'm sure no one's shocked. Spoilers for season 2  
**Pairings**: nada  
**Rating**: R  
**Wordcount**: 740

* * *

When Sam stuck that gun to the back of Gordon's head, he hadn't wanted to kill a human so much since Hibbing, Minnesota.

If he hadn't already called the cops, he would have.

What he wonders, sometimes, now that he knows what Dean's been hiding for months, is if he'd regret it or not.

He doubts it.

That should frighten him far more than it does.

o0o

A few months after Gordon almost killed Sam, he catches up to them again. This time, Dean whacks him across the face with a rifle-butt and Gordon goes down hard.

Sam's asleep in their motel room, worn out from the last hunt, and Dean takes Gordon to a little patch of woods outside of town.

He waits for Gordon to wake up.

o0o

Sam's barely conscious when Dean gets back, but he knows from Dean's ragged breathing that something's happened.

A part of him knows before he registers the smell of blood.

Even though Dean's eyes bled when Mary crawled out of her mirror, Sam never asked. Maybe he didn't want it to be true; maybe he wanted to think there was a line Dean wasn't willing to cross.

"Dean," he says, sitting up in the bed, and Dean shakes his head.

"Shh, Sammy," he murmurs, reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. "Go back to sleep. It's not even morning yet."

Sam swallows hard, trying vainly to ignore the blood splattered across Dean's shirt, his face, down one leg of his jeans. Trying to ignore the look in Dean's eyes, barely made out by the artificial light streaming through the crack in the curtains, mixed in with a hint of the moon. "Dean," he says again, and can't think of how to continue.

Dean lowers his head, looks away. "Sleep, Sam. Everything will be better in the morning."

He walks to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Sam lays back and rolls over, buries his face in the pillow.

He can't fall asleep until he hears the bathroom door open and Dean collapse on the other bed.

o0o

It's three months until another hunter catches up to them. This time, a sniper bullet just misses Sam's heart and he falls even before he's registered the pain.

Dean's quicker than the other hunter, and a better shot, and his bullet tears through the bastard's right eye and out the back of his son of a bitch head.

"Sammy," he says, kneeling next to Sam and putting pressure on the wound, "if you die, I swear to God I'll bring you back from the dead and kick your ass."

Sam laughs and gags on blood.

o0o

When Dean walks into the Roadhouse, everything stops. All the hunters glance over and Ellen slips out the back of the bar, jerking her head to tell Jo and Ash to follow.

She owed them boys for Jo's life, even though she never did get around to thanking them, and letting Dean know which hunters were at her bar is just one way of evening the score.

Whatever plan that demon had, she can't help but wondering if this was ever in the cards.

"Mom?" Jo asks when the first scream sounds.

"It'll be fine, honey," Ellen lies, trying hard to remember that Dean is one of the good guys.

o0o

When morning comes, Ellen doesn't return to the Roadhouse. She doesn't let Jo or Ash go in, either.

She tries, in vain, to recall the little boy John talked about, the boy that loved his little brother more than anything and was more of a father than John. She tries to recall that brokenly proud man that first stepped into her saloon and refused to back down.

All she can remember is the shattered killer that left a trail of hunter's corpses down one coast and up the other.

o0o

_"Daddy," Sam asked, with all the seriousness a five year old could muster, "is it always wrong to kill a human?" _

_John looked up from his journal and peered at Sam with shocked eyes. "Why do you wanna know, son?" _

_"If a human hurt me or Dean, would you kill it?" _

_"Sam," he said, all traces of humor gone. "A human is never 'it'. Humans are 'he' or 'she', and unless the situation is very, **very** urgent, we don't kill them."_

_"But if a human hurt me or Dean, would you kill he or she?" Sam persisted._

_John didn't hesitate. "Yes." _

_Sam nodded, satisfied.  
_


	6. Darling Abel, Damned Cain

**Title**: Darling Abel, Damned Cain

**Disclaimer**: not my characters just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season two

**Pairings**: technically, none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 560

* * *

John learned the truth six months after leaving Dean without a word. He'd long suspected, but now he knew—

_Cain and Abel, Johnny_, the demon laughed in his head as he drowned his suspicions and fear in alcohol. _Cain and Abel._

"No," he said aloud. "No." He drained one bottle and opened the next, taking a sip. "You're wrong."

The demon laughed. _You know as well as I do, John. Such a lovely story, those brothers._

"Shut up," John muttered, throwing the empty bottle against the motel wall.

_Your sons won't have a better end. You've left them only one path. John, I couldn't have done it better myself_. It chuckled and his head throbbed with the sound.

"I told you to shut up!" John tried snarling, but his words slurred.

The chuckle swelled to a mocking laugh. _Look at you, John. You've failed. Sam will be mine or dead—either way, I win._

"No," John denied again, a futile word that never changed anything, ever, no matter how loud he screamed it.

o0o

John couldn't hide the truth from Dean, not when he knew he'd never see his son again.

So he leaned over Dean, newly awakened from his coma, whole and healthy, and he put his mouth to Dean's ear, and he whispered the words that he knew sent his little soldier straight to Hell.

_Save him, Dean. Or destroy him._

_Save him, Dean. Or kill him._

_Kill Sammy, Dean. Or the world dies in his stead._

_Kill Sammy, Dean._

As John pulled away, he heard the demon cackle.

And Dean just looked at him, shock and horror and disbelief on his face. Worst of all, though, was the betrayal in his eyes.

o0o

"He won't do it, John," the demon said, wrapping its host's hand around the Colt. "You taught your firstborn too well." It raised its eyes to meet his, gaze full of delight. "The moment you placed the burden on Dean's shoulders, you failed."

With his final breath, John wondered if that was his intention all along.

o0o

Cain and Abel. Dean and Sammy. Fucking demons and their fucking plans and their fucking destructive tendencies and the families they leave ruined by fire all over the country.

Dean's stronger than Cain and John knew it.

_Save Sammy, Dean._

Dean's never been jealous of Sam, not for longer than an aborted heartbeat.

_Kill Sammy, Dean._

Dean could never kill Sam. But John doubted he'll able to save him, in the end.

_Or the world dies in his stead._

The demon cackled and a chill shot down John's spine. "Your boy will light the first match, Johnny," the demon purred and John closed his eyes.

o0o

When John stood over Dean in that hospital bed and could only see Mary's eyes begging him to deny everything he just said, John knew he'd finally delivered the one order his perfect little soldier would never obey.

"You did a marvelous job, John," the demon murmured and John looked away. "You created for Sam the perfect protector—Dean will keep him safe and alive and follow him when Sam finally falls at my feet." The demon touched his forehead and said, "I should thank you, Johnny. And to show my appreciation, I'll let you watch until that time comes."

John sobbed.

"Cain and Abel," the demon howled. "Oh, this is too wonderful to be reality."

John prayed.


	7. Everything Else

**Title**: Everything Else

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Hunted"

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 480

* * *

_You've got to kill me, Dean. Please. It's the only option left._

_No, Sam. No. That's not an option at all._

o0o

Dean sometimes wonders if Dad really expected him to do it. Honestly believed he could. Dad should have known better—hell, Dad _did_ know better. Because when Dean thinks back, when Dad pulled away, eyes shining with sadness and love and those tears he couldn't cry, not in front of the son he was going to die for, when he smiled that aching smile down at Dean, his eyes also said_, Just try. I know you can't. But you have to try._

Dean could never try. Not that. And Dad knew it.

But still asked because there was nothing else to do.

o0o

_C'mon, man. It's—_

_Not happening. Ever._

_You think you can keep me from doing it myself?_

_… yes._

o0o

Anything Dad ever asked of him, Dean did. Tried his damnedest and succeeded, nearly every time. And he never asked why. He knew.

Their survival meant listening to Dad without hesitation. Without quarrel. Sam's life hung in the balance of Dean doing as Dad said. And anything that could cost Sam his life—well, Dean wouldn't blink.

o0o

_You couldn't, Dean._

_I'll die trying._

_No. No, Dean. This—_

_Not gonna happen. You ain't gonna be that bastard's pawn and you ain't dying._

_It's not that simple._

_Yeah, it is._

o0o

Anything Dad ever asked. Any order Dad ever gave. Dean never paused, never hesitated, never disobeyed, except that one time and he took that lesson to heart.

Dad knew it, Sam knew it, Dean knew it. Dad gave an order, Dean obeyed. It was as dependable as the sun rising, as the Earth rotating, as gravity working.

So when Dad told Dean to save Sam, and if that failed, to kill him—Dad knew what he was saying. What burden he was laying across Dean's shoulders, on Dean's soul. He couldn't help but know. Dean has no doubt of that.

But Dad also knew that this was one order Dean could never, ever obey.

o0o

_Dean—_

_Sam. Listen. It's not happenin'._

_You don't know that._

_Yeah, I do._

_How?_

o0o

And the fact that Dad still told him to—to—

That Dad even considered—

That Dad could think—

Well.

o0o

_I just… do._

_That's not good enough. _

_Well, it'll have to do. Okay? 'cause you ain't killin' yourself, and I sure as hell ain't doing it._

_Dean… _

_No. No. _

_But what if—_

_No._

o0o

Dean can't kill Sam. No matter what else happens, no matter what Sam becomes, no matter what Sam does—Sam is Sam. And that's it. End of story.

o0o

_Dean—_

_No._

o0o

Dad told him, but Dad already knew what the answer would be. Dad already knew where Dean stood on the subject of Sam—Dad had fashioned him, moulded him, taught him—

Sam first. Everything else… after.

No matter what that everything else might be.


	8. Overprotective Mother Hen

**Title**: Overprotective Mother Hen, With a Slightly Vicious Streak 

**Fandom**: "Supernatural" 

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. 

**Warnings**: language. Spoilers for season 1. 

**Pairings**: nada 

**Rating**: PG13 

**Wordcount**: 570

* * *

_You fucking shot my car, dude!_

- 

It was an accident. Really. Sam would **never** hurt the car. He loves the car. Not as much as **Dean** does, of course, because Dean is a freak with possessive tendencies and once he decides something is **his**, he refuses to let go with the tenacity of a… a… well, Sam can't think of an apt comparison, but that thing he can't think of, Dean is **totally** like it. 

Anyways. It was an **accident**. Honest. 

- 

_Oh, shit, Dean—I'm sorry._

_Sorry? You. Shot. My. Car. _

_I didn't mean to!_

_You aimed. You fired. At. My. Car!_

- 

Dean's always been over-protective. For as long as Sam has memory, Dean's been a hovering mother hen somehow bred with an attack-dog. And, yeah, sometimes at school that came in handy—till, you know, Sam shot up a **foot** in eight months and filled out some. Sam didn't like fighting; Dean got rush from it. So. 

Sam studied and ignored the kids who hassled him. Dean **didn't** study and **didn't** ignore the kids who hassled Sam. No one hassled Dean. Ever had, if Sam remembers right, and he bets that he does. 

So, Sam's used to Dean. He knows which buttons to push when, and knows when to back off. He also knows when to never, ever start something, because Dean—really—has a long temper when it comes to Sam, so when he's close to losing it? 

Well. Yeah. Sam knows. 

- 

_There was a freaking zombie-werewolf-thing, Dean!_

_And?_

_Zombie-werewolf, Dean! A **werewolf** that's **also** a **zombie**!_

_So fucking what? _

_It was shoot the fucking werewolf or let it EAT YOU!_

_But you didn't shoot the fucking werewolf, Sam! You fucking shot my car!_

- 

See, Sam knows Dean. Pretty well, truth be told. Better than anyone else alive **or** dead. 

And, yeah, that 'or dead' is necessary, considering what they've seen and what they do. 

Sam gets that Dean's car is a metaphor for Dean. He takes care of the car when he's happy; it gets into disrepair when he's not. Simple. Open and shut. 

So, Sam treats the car with respect. He's hurt Dean too much already. 

He fucking **shot Dean**, and damned if he still doesn't get nightmares where the gun was loaded. 

But the werewolf-zombie was leaping for Dean, and the car was in the line of fire. 

So, see? It's **totally** not Sam's fault. 

- 

_I didn't mean to! I was aiming for the fucking monster that was trying to eat you!_

_And you hit the fucking monster, but you also shot the Impala!_

_Would you rather be dead?!_

_You shot my car!_

_Dude! Would you rather be dead?_

_My Impala!_

- 

And god, but Dean can go on and on and on… and Sam is patient, he really is, but Dean won't shut up about the stupid CAR getting fucking SHOT and he forgets that a ZOMBIE-WEREWOLF was trying to EAT HIM. 

Not that Sam is any better, he'll admit. 

Maybe he got a little rush, shooting the Impala. A little. Teeny. Tiny. The smallest amount possible. Honest. 

But if he could have avoided the car, he would've. Because the car is Dean and Dean is the car, and does his brother have issues or _what_? 

- 

_Dean._

_Samuel._

_I'm sorry I shot the Impala._

_And?_

_I'll never, ever do it again. I'll let the monster eat you next time._

_Damned right, you will. _


	9. Apparition

**Title**: Apparition

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 240

* * *

Sometimes, when he dreams, he sees her as she was. She wears a summer dress, hair long and flowing, with the widest grin in the world on her face.

She comes to him, takes his hand. Her comments but the opening one remain the same.

"Beautiful sunset," she observes and he nods, replies, "That it was."

Sometimes she asks about their children, about his parents. About where he thinks they'll move next.

"Dean's getting big," he tells her. Or, "Sammy has the highest grade in his class."

Often, she says, "Stop, John. This crusade in my name can't end well."

But he shakes his head, responds with, "I'm getting close, Mary. I can feel it. I have to end the thing that killed you."

And she cups his face with her hands, meets his eyes with her huge, hazel gaze. "See our sons, John. See what you're doing to them. How old are they now?"

"Dean just turned sixteen," he replies.

"They need a father," she says sadly. "They've already lost a mom. They don't need a sergeant. And they don't need a hunter. They need the man I married."

John places his hands over hers and leans down, gently kisses her lips. He pulls back slightly and murmurs, "That man died with you."

o0o

When he wakes, he remembers. He knows what she wanted for her boys, what she still wants for them.

And they'll get it. After the hunt is through.


	10. Ever Falling

**Title**: Ever Falling

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Winchesters or their demons.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 430

* * *

It was just after midnight on an abandoned road somewhere near the Pacific. He could smell the salt air, hear the roar of the ocean. The wind ruffled his hair, bit at his cheeks.

He only had a few more steps to freedom, but the demon followed.

At first, he could only feel the sensation of falling, and it terrified him. But his knees met the ground with a thud and he gasped, knew something had broken. Then fingers tangled in his hair, a hand splayed across his back.

He still felt like he was falling.

Thing was, when he landed, he didn't know where he'd be.

The hand on his back roamed upward and the fingers in his hair tightened, tugging the strands. Warm breath ghosted along his neck and he shuddered, trying to move away—but the hand closed around his shoulder and the fingers pulled at his hair.

"Going so soon?" the demon asked, mocking him with its host's voice. "I think not." It pushed him and he toppled over, not even attempting the illusion of a struggle. He was too tired and his soul hurt too much.

"C'mon," it drawled, bastardizing the voice. "Make Daddy proud."

He just stared at the sky, wishing everything were over, wishing none of it had happened. "Giving in?" it asked, nearly laughing. "Giving up? You shame him. You always have."

He focused on the sound of the waves, on the gentle breeze, on the scent of the ocean—then the hands clamped around his neck.

"You're the only Winchester left," it snarled. "I leave this body and it dies. Most of the soul's already fled. You alone can carry on and you just lie here, letting me win without a fight."

There were no words to say, so he kept watching the sky. "You're a disappointment," it hissed in his ear, fingers trailing across his face. "They were glad to escape you, to no longer be around your stench of failure."

With a noise of disgust, it slid off him, rolled to its' feet. "I'm not gonna kill you. I'm just gonna leave this body, find a new one. Continue on. And you'll be alone."

He turned his head, looked up, meet those dark green eyes. "You'll be alone," it repeated and laughed. "Whether you live or kill yourself or find someone else to do it for you—I'll have won."

Then it relinquished it's hold on the body it'd long since killed and soared to the sky.

By the time he reached his father's body, John Winchester was already gone.


	11. Pane

**Title**: Pane  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: John, Jessica, Sam, and Dean are not mine. They're just lots of fun to torture, is all.  
**Warnings**: none, really  
**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 340

* * *

In another world, Dean died when he turned twenty-four. Sometimes Sam dreams about it. He sees the day he gets the news, a broken, worn message from Dad left on his voicemail. He hears his dad's shattered voice, the tattered words pouring forth in a waterfall, and then Dad loses control—John Winchester, dangerous hunter, sobs into his phone and then the line goes dead.

He can feel the floor painfully meet his knees as he falls, the receiver tumbling from his hand. He can hear his roommate Alton asking what's wrong, rushing over, supporting Sam as he slumps down further. He can smell the salami Alton had for lunch, taste the gum he'd been chewing when he listened to the message, see the world dimming with the knowledge that Dean's gone forever.

o0o

In another world, Dean died when he turned twenty-four. It was quick, brutal. Almost painless.

Sam stayed at college, got into law school, married a lovely blonde named Jessica. They had three children, two daughters and a son. Jessica named all three, Sam content with her choices: Hope, Victoria, and Benjamin.

Sam became a well-respected lawyer and Jessica wrote a popular series of books. When Sam was thirty-five, he received word that his father died. He thanked Pastor Jim kindly and then went to court where he got his guilty client off scot-free.

o0o

In another world, Dean died when he turned twenty-four. His niece Hope over-dosed on ecstasy during her freshman year of high school. His niece Victoria was raped her junior year of college and shot the man dead three nights later. His nephew Benjamin was in an automobile accident weeks before his college graduation and woke up six months after, paralyzed from the waist down.

His brother Sam was the best defense lawyer in the western US and his sister-in-law Jessica cheated every night.

o0o

In another world, Dean died when he was twenty-four. Sam can see it, hear it, taste it, smell it, feel it—and he wakes, nearly ashamed, because he knows he's relieved Jessica died instead.


	12. UsedToBe's Don't Count Anymore

**Title**: Used-To-Be's Don't Count Anymore  
**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Title comes from "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" by Neil Diamond Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: AU for "Scarecrow"  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rated**: G  
**Wordcount**: 223

* * *

Apple pie is dust in the rearview and it's time to go.

---

The music is so loud he can't think and he finds that comforting, because it's familiar, it's his past and his future and everything he ever had, and he can almost _see_—

He flicks the knob and the music gets louder.

Hope flitters in and out, sometimes bleeding or weeping, sometimes laughing. He wants her to stay always, because it hurts when Despair settles on his shoulders, but he understands.

He was the hopeful one for so long but now Hope can't stay because he's finally been left, even though he was also the one who spent his life leaving and almost never looked back.

Hope flutters about and Despair laughs as he knocks her away.

Hotel rooms all look the same, he thinks, taking in a new one. Empty and desolate and lonely—so, so lonely.

They used to laugh about the oddness of the rooms they got, used to share jokes and smiles about the weirdness found even in their normality.

They used to—and now he's falling over the edge, wondering if his brother will catch him before Hell accepts him home.

Apple pie is dust in the rearview and he doesn't look back, just turns the music up as loud as it'll go.


	13. Seasons

**Title**: Seasons

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: none, really. Takes place pre-pilot and in the future.  
**Pairings**: John/Mary  
**Rated**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 520

* * *

**Winter**

Every time it snowed, Dean would stare out the window. He watched the flakes fall with fascination, and Sam watched him. Dean smiled and laughed, as the flakes danced around, and finally he'd ask Dad for permission to go outside.

This was the one thing Dad never denied him. "Make sure to bundle up and keep an eye out," Dad'd say and return to whatever he'd been doing.

Dean would rush outside and leap through the air, laughing and twirling like he'd never been happier. Sam would watch from the window, awed at the sheer joy Dean radiated.

He'd never liked the snow as much as Dean did. He really didn't like the cold. But when Dean met his eyes and smiled, Sam would hurry out. They could spend hours making snowpeople or having snowball fights or playing hide-and-seek.

And Dad knew everything would be okay. So long as his sons could be children for a while, surely everything would be fine.

Winter was the best season of all.

**Spring**

When the world warmed, Sam felt contentment welling up inside him. Where Dean bloomed with the cold, Sam embraced the gentle warmth of spring.

He could stand in the sun for hours, just soaking in the heat. Eyes closed, face towards the sky, he just breathed in the world. Dean would watch the sunlight bath his brother, wondering how Sam could just stand there, silently.

Sam would open his eyes finally, glance towards Dean with a smile, and then take off the opposite way. Dean would follow, race after, eventually catching and surpassing him.

Dad would look over from where he worked on the car or sat on the bench or was doing whatever, and smiled. He knew everything would be okay. So long as his sons could be children for a while, surely everything would be fine.

Spring was the best season of all.

**Summer**

Summer meant sweat and swimming and too much heat. Summer meant extra work, extra training, extra hunting. Summer meant arguments flaring and voices roaring and words that could never be unsaid, only regretted.

Summer meant Dad and Sam butting heads and Dean in the middle more often than not. Summer meant Sam taking off every other day and Dean following to cool him down. Summer meant Dad trying to smother the memories of Mom, memories of all their days and nights in the long, slow months of June through August.

Summer came to mean Sam saying goodbye and walking away.

And summer used to mean hot dogs and lemonade and playing ball in the backyard while Mom sang to Sam and Dean laughed.

**Fall**

Mom's favorite season had been autumn.

After Sam fell and didn't get back up, Dean hated it. Hated the leaves changing and floating to the ground. Hated the wind growing colder. Hated having to add a layer or two of clothing. Hated that everything reminded of him of his failure to save Sam.

Watching the leaves fall meant that Sam never could see it again.

Mom's favorite season had been autumn. And now Dean hates it most of all.


	14. Today

**Title**: Today

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings:** spoilers for season 1  
**Pairings**: Mary/John, Sam/Jessica  
**Rating: **PG  
**Notes: **The bold-italics is Johnny-boy.  
**Wordcount**: 616

* * *

**_I went to Missouri and I learned the truth. _**

o0o

_Dean fell… _

_… and Sammy wasn't there to catch him anymore._

o0o

**_She 'lifted the veil', she said, showed me what lay out in the darkness. Told me of evil, the true evils that stalk the world. _**

**_Evil that stole Mary, came in and took her from me… _**

**_Told me how such things can be fought, how someone can stalk them back. _**

o0o

Sam happily went to school and learned useless shit Dean knew he'd never need to know.

Sam happily dated that blonde—Jessica, Dean'd learned her name was, and, damn, didn't she look just like Mom?—and pretended he didn't know how to exorcise a poltergeist or fire a gun.

Sam happily erased Dad from his life.

Sammy was gone.

o0o

**_The boys are mine as much as they're Mary's, and they need to know. I can't let them walk in the world without the knowledge of what's out there. I can't risk that they'll be taken like her. _**

**_I know you wouldn't want this, Mary. I know I'll probably hate myself before the end. _**

**_But it doesn't matter. _**

o0o

Today is the Fourth of July. Dean walks around the town, watching the celebrations with envious eyes.

Sam's in California. Dean wonders if he ever looked back.

Dad's in Maine. Dean wonders if he knows what day it is.

Today is a celebration of freedom. Dean doesn't know what that is.

o0o

**_I don't know how this'll end. Where we'll be—hell, even where I'll go when I die. _**

**_I want to see you, Mary. I want to feel you again. I want to hear your laughter and taste your lips and run my hands through your hair. I want to watch you dance with Dean and tickle Sam and smile at me. _**

**_I want you back… but Missouri says you're gone. _**

**_All I have is your sons. I wonder if you'll hate me for what I do to them. _**

o0o

Today is Christmas. Jessica's been dead for over a month, now. Dad hasn't called. Sam hasn't told Dean about his nightmares and Dean hasn't told Sam about many things.

Today is a celebration of salvation, but neither of them feel saved, despite how often Pastor Jim tried.

Their father could be blamed, if one ever chose who to yell at over the state of their souls.

o0o

**_Dean takes to the training like a duck to water, Mary. He tries to do everything I ask. _**

**_He hasn't yet realized it's not a game. _**

o0o

Today is March 7 and Dean is dead.

Tomorrow is March 8 and seems so far away.

o0o

**_Sam, though, Mary, he's like me. He fights every step of the way—he's my mirror, I see that. He wants to please me, but he also wants to know why. He won't accept_ because I say so _or_ you don't need to know.**

**_Sometimes I want to strangle him, but Dean always coerces him into listening. _**

**_If Sam is mine, Dean is yours. _**

**_Have I made a mistake, Mary? _**

**_Missouri told me what stalks the world. I can't turn back. _**

**_Sometimes, I wish I'd left them somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the fight. _**

o0o

Today is November 2 and twenty-three years ago Mom died.

Dean remembers, but Sam doesn't. Dean knows, and Sam thinks he can fathom because Jessica died a year ago.

Dean could explain. But Sam doesn't want to hear.

The roar of fire still echoes in both their ears.

o0o

**_Mary… forgive me. _**

**_I'll see you soon. _**

o0o

Today is January 1. A new beginning.

o0o

_Dean fell… _

_… and Sammy used telekinesis to soften the landing. _


	15. Treachery

**Title**: Treachery

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: AU and speculation  
**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Wordcount**: 900

* * *

_I am betrayal. Is there any other word for me? I leave; over and over I walk away without a single glance back. _

_And you wait for me to return. You always wait. Sometimes I think that's all you know how to do. Aren't you tired of being left behind?_

_Aren't you tired of being the strong one, haven't you wearied of being in the middle? You always pick up the pieces without fail; you always get between us when our tempers fray and our words cut. _

_You are peace. I am betrayal. _

_You give and give; you wait for me to give in return, but I never learned how. I never needed to. You were always there. You will always be there._

_And I left you. I left you. And I plan to leave you again, after you've given up more of yourself._

_How can you stand to look at me? To be around me? All I do is cause you grief!_

o0o

_He was Mary's child before he was yours, _the breeze tells him as it ruffles his hair. The scent of bar-b-que and sweat, the glare of sunlight and heat thick enough to cut—this is the life he wanted for his boys, while she wanted them to be painters.

Sam runs around the park with kids his own age, able to make friends anywhere, while Dean watches, a look John can't decipher on his elder's face.

_Are you worried, Johnny? _the breeze asks. _You should be, you know. He's more like Mary than you'll ever know, and isn't that a scary thought?_

Sam hurries over to Dean and grabs his hand, pulls him into the game. Within moments, they're both laughing and smiling—and John is glad. For today, at least, his sons can be children again.

o0o

_He was Mary's child before he was yours,_ the demon tells him, grinning with its host's mouth_. He'll be Mary's until we reclaim him, and his blood—oh, Hunter, you can't imagine._He exorcizes it with a smile and relief that Dean's on his own hunt somewhere. He knows he can't explain. Knows he wouldn't dare to explain, no matter how much Dean's eyes—Mary's eyes—entreat for something, a morsel of knowledge to share the truth.

_He was yours, Mary, _he thinks, _but he's mine, now._

o0o

Dean never asked, growing up, why sometimes he heard things Dad and Sam didn't. Why he saw shadows where Sam only saw light or whispers when there was only quiet. Dean never told Dad, never considered it for more than a minute.

How would he start the conversation? How could look his father in the eye and say, "Hey, Dad, you know those things we hunt? I think I might be one of them."

And then Sam—after Dad abandoned him like everyone else found the time to do and Jessica died just like Mom and little brother came back on the road—decided it was time for nightmare/visions, and Dean realized one of them was channeling the other.

Every time he had his own, he wondered who.

o0o

_He was Mary's. He was ours._ The voices mingle as John floats in and out of consciousness._ Mary was ours and her son can't escape. You lost him, John. You never saw and now—_John shoots into awakeness as they howl with laughter._He's ours._ John slams his eyes shut and tries to remember Mary, his beautiful wife who shone with love and hope and happiness. He strains to recall her voice—and hears only them, chanting over and over _He's ours._

o0o

_I am betrayal. Is there any other word for me? I leave; over and over I walk away without a single glance back. _

_And yet—Dean, this time you've left me. You've left me. You've gone somewhere I can't follow and Dad won't explain._

_I woke to nurses with smiles and doctors who can't explain. I woke to a spotty memory and weak muscles. I woke to questions that only you can answer and all Dad says is, "He's gone. He's gone. He was hers and now he's theirs, and I failed."_

_That's all he says, Dean. Please—come back._

o0o

John knows Mary had pain in her past. Things she wanted to forget and wished she never knew.

He also knows he loved her and she loved him and their boys were the best thing either of them had ever done.

Mary died for Sam. John knows Mary would have died for Dean, too, if given the chance. And even for him.

John's eyes tear as he listens to Sam cry out for Dean during the night, during the visions he can no longer escape or ignore.

Mary died for Sam because the thing fucked-up but good and went after the wrong son.

o0o

Dean tries to forget what he used to be because it makes everything harder. The voices whisper of fun to be had and he attempts to lose himself in their soothing tones.

He ignores the memories of a little brother and the hunt; he glosses over the good times they had and focuses on the pain caused by Sam as he walked away.

o0o

John knows. Sam pretends he doesn't. Dean raises his head high and kills another.

o0o

In the end, there is no such thing as magnificence.

There are only tears.


	16. Weak

**Title**: Weak

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "Heart"

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG

**Notes**: I was sure they'd kill her—and they did! I **love** my show. And the SammySexScene? I **_love_** my show!

* * *

Maybe he **is** cursed.

_Shoulda known better._

Doomed to kill everybody he cares about.

_You're cursed._

Unable to escape.

_She **asked** me to do it._

Like that matters.

_Just like I asked **Dean** to do it._

He's a burden, weak, a problem Dean can't afford.

_She **wanted** to die._

Like that helps.

_Didn't want to live a monster. _

He's a curse. He killed Mom, Jessica, Dad, Madison—he **can't** stay around and kill Dean.

_You think that'll help?_

But he **can't** leave, either. Not again. He's not strong enough to walk away again.

_Weak. Always have been._

He just…

_Weak_.


	17. Such A Fragile Thing

**Title**: Such A Fragile Thing

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not mine, those lovely, breakable boys.

**Warnings**: futurefic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

* * *

The sun sets and there isn't a single hope left in the world.

Dean was too late. Too slow. Too weak. He wasn't in time and that fucking yellow-eyed bastard succeeded.

Sam's gone. No one home in his body except a demented soul without a single shred of _Sammy_ left because Dean wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

The Demon won. Killed Mom, killed Jessica, killed Dad—killed _Sam_.

The sun sets and Dean's alone and all the hope is dead or dying.

Sam's out hunting. The hunters are fleeing or trying to fight.

And Dean watches the sun set.

Waiting.


	18. Beautiful

**Title**: Beautiful

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Devil's Trap"; mentions of underaged whoring

**Pairings**: Dean/OMC, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 970

* * *

_You know, Johnny, _It whispers as Dean drives them to the cabin, _he's more beautiful than any sin I've ever committed. _

_Shut up, _John snarls, focusing on fighting to get his body back.

The demon laughs, low and vicious. _What ever have you done, John? Can't you see what's in front of your eyes? _

o0o

The first time, Dean was thirteen. He never could remember much of it, thankfully—it was a blur, random images and smells that always brought nausea when they flashed through his mind.

Since he couldn't remember, he ignored it. Winchesters were always good at forgetting things they really didn't want to contemplate.

Though, Dean never did any drugs, never even wanted to sample them. Stayed away from them with a single-minded intensity inherent in his blood—just like Dad's crusade.

The first time, Dean was thirteen. And he pretended it had never happened.

o0o

_Be quiet,_ John hisses, a tone that would send any human and most animals ducking for cover.

_Johnny, that won't work on me. I'm deep inside your mind, playing with your memories—I see you for what you are, and doesn't that just gall you?_ It chuckles, using his voice to talk with his sons, and John rails against the mimicry, screaming to be let out. _Twenty-three years you've searched. Could you_ _imagine it'd end like this? _

_No, _John growls. _This is **not** how it ends! _

_Isn't it though? _It whispers, and loses John in the turns of his own mind.

o0o

The second time, Dean'd just turned fifteen. And that one—never could forget.

He got a hundred dollars for it. Never made a sound. Let the man do what he wanted and then bought Sammy a hamburger for supper. Bought groceries for the week.

After Sam fell asleep, Dean left the apartment for about ten minutes so he could vomit and sob.

Dad'd been gone for ten days and stayed gone for ten more.

The third and fourth time also happened during that almost-month. But Sammy ate like a king.

o0o

John watches distantly as It praises his firstborn, Mary's darling boy. The demon tells Dean what he's wished he could. Wishes he had.

The truth always hurts when something else reveals it in your stead.

_He's got Mary's eyes, Johnny,_ It murmurs as Dean realizes his father doesn't have control and raises the gun. _Has that hurt you his whole life? I can see—how often you've longed to punish him for it. Punish him for her face and her gaze and her tone._ It laughs again, while Sam chooses Dean. _Oh, Johnny—you sick, **twisted** boy. _

Dean and Sam are tossed against separate walls and the colt falls to the floor.

_Not that I can blame you,_ It purrs_. He is beautiful, after all. And you loved Mary so much. _

o0o

By the day Sam left, Dean had stopped counting. He no longer needed to, but habits are hard to break. Stealing and cheating were easier, safer—but took more time and didn't bring in as much money.

But then Sam left. For safety and education and a life of his choosing.

So Dean stopped. He and Dad went their own ways, solo hunts. Dean only had to pay for one.

He felt incomplete alone, like a painting half-finished then pushed to the side. He'd always been second. To the hunt, to dreams—taken for granted or forgotten.

But he had a job to do. Things to kill. People to save.

o0o

It taunts Sam and Dean pulls the focus back to him. _Always the protector, your Dean. Such a good boy. _

_Shut up_, John snarls, resuming the fight for control. _Take the gun—take it._ _Just leave them alone. _

_How about this?_ It asks. _I'll let you pick one. The son she died for—or the son with her eyes._

Dean says something but John doesn't hear, too caught up with horror. The demon hears, though, and It's angry.

_Never mind_, It hisses, and starts carving out Dean's heart.

o0o

And then Dad went missing. Jessica—who looked shockingly like Mom, right down to her eyes—died the same death as Mom. Down to the second. Sam came back to the hunt.

Dean knew he was still second place. Except, instead of normality, it was now the hunt. Again.

Sam said he and Dad were nothing alike. Dean knew it was bullshit.

He hadn't had to pay for two in a while and he wanted the cards to last.

Old habits are easy to fall into.

o0o

"Dad… please..." Dean gasps. "Don't let It kill me."

Sam's fighting hard and John's screaming in the depths of his soul, throwing himself against the walls of his mind.

Then It lets him go. It's still there, he can feel It. So when Dean falls and Sam picks up the gun and It takes over again, John pieces together the puzzle.

Sam shoots him and It recoils, giving him back his body. But It's there, hasn't fully left, so he demands Sam kill him. Begs.

And Dean begs him not to.

It leaves and so do they and Sam should have killed It while he had the chance, because things are about to get so much worse.

o0o

The first time, Dean was thirteen. It wasn't his choice. All he got for it were nightmares and blood on his hands.

The last time, he was twenty-seven. He got fifty dollars.

When he woke up, it was to Sam with sad eyes and a world without Dad.

Sam whispered, "Sorry," and pulled Dean to him, pleaded for forgiveness, for Dean to not hate him.

Dean wondered what was a dream and what actually happened and told Sam forgiveness was one thing he never had to ask for.

He didn't see the nurse with gold eyes or hear her whisper, "Beautiful."


	19. Blessed be the Lord

**Title**: Blessed be the Lord

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 1; language

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 840

* * *

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

He's dead and he's dying and he hears the dirt calling his name but he knows it's not enough.

It'll never be enough, never, not even if he lives a thousand years in this broken, mostly-dead kind of way.

Not even if he sells his soul to the highest bidder—and after his life, he knows the bids'll get very fucking high—or falls to the 'dark side', or just fucking blows his brains out with that Colt and the bullet's that are supposed to kill anything but don't even fucking _work_—

The bullet _didn't work_. Didn't kill the thing that killed Mom.

o0o

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

The bullet didn't work. And he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger with the demon dead in his sight. Looking at him with Dad's eyes and speaking to him with Dad's voice and then—

He begged Sammy not to pull the trigger a third time, not to shoot Dad in the heart to kill the demon because then Dad'd be dead, too, and that'd just be too much taken from him, too much given up for this crusade—

And the original crusades turned out _so_ well, didn't they?

o0o

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

Too much blood and pain in his life for healthy thoughts, yeah? Too much wondering how it ever came to this, how he can fix it and make it better and heal all of Sammy's wounds, but he knows he never can. Never will.

But he's tried his best his whole life. Tended cuts and scraps, tried to mend souls with band-aids that could never be big enough. Wiped away tears and shot at fears with bullets far stronger than the ones that didn't work on Mom's killer.

His whole life he's been the center, the heart, the one to turn to. Then, of course, Sam turned away.

Silently he asked forgiveness for that, and even quieter it was given.

o0o

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

He's always hated the cold. Along with flying, the cold's been his fear for as long as he can remember.

He can take it in short bursts, long enough for a hunt, but stay any longer and he feels his insides start to freeze, to shut down, to fade—

Of course he never told Dad. All those years spent in the north—added up in days and months and hours—were pure Hell, in an ironic kind of way. His worst nightmares, the ones that don't deal with Sammy and death or Dad and death, deal with him freezing to death alone, far from any help—or Dad and/or Sammy walking away from him trapped in ice.

He's always hated the cold. And now he's fucking freezing deep in his bones, and Sammy's too lost in his own pain to notice.

o0o

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

He can see his breath. He can hear his heartbeat slowing. He can feel the blood sloshing through his veins and out the furrows in his skin. He can taste blood and bile in his mouth. And he can smell death on the air.

Fuck, he _hates_ the cold.

o0o

_The Lord giveth… _

o0o

On the wind he hears something else, a faint voice calling to him, telling him to _fight, fucking fight, don't give up, hold on, just hold on, please, goddamn it, hold on, Dean. _

_Hold on, Dean, please, _and something warm tickles his ear, feels like a breeze from those months in Florida—greatest days of his life, those fleeting times in the sun—and his soul sighs a little since his body seems inclined to ignore his commands.

_Please, Dean… _the wind whispers, _don't leave me. Don't leave me. _

Distantly he wonders why the wind thinks he's leaving, and from a further point down the tunnel of light, he wonders why he's leaving.

It's so warm—such a warm, bright light—

o0o

_… blessed be the Lord… _

o0o

_Please, Dean… please… _

Warm liquid splashes onto his face and echoes across eternity, like a gong or thunder, like a cannon during war—and he pauses, walking down the tunnel into the light.

_Please, big brother, Dean, damn you, don't you do this, don't you leave me here, come back! Damn it, Dean, come back to me! _

He glances back the way he's come, down the tunnel darkened at the end.

The light beckons, glows softly, so beautifully, like poetry and hope and faith and joy and puppies and horses running free across the plains and wolves howling in chorus and everything he's ever wanted and never gotten—it beckons, calls to something deep within his soul…

_… please, Dean, please don't leave me here… _

But the voice in the wind that ruffles his hair and tickles his face touches something even deeper and he rushes headlong back the way he's come

o0o

_The Lord giveth… _

o0o

And it's the coldest he's ever been, opening his eyes to Sammy's face, but he knows he's never felt warmer.

o0o

_… and the Lord taketh away… _


	20. Born of Fire

**Title**: Born of Fire

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Devil's Trap"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 540

* * *

You were born in fire and blood and death. You had four years before that, but they no longer count.

That night, the night darkness stole your mother and your life, you were reborn. You were too young to understand, of course, too young for a long time. But eventually you learned.

You died with your mother. The innocent child who had a future burned in the house you swore to never return to.

That night you were reborn as _his_ protector.

You failed your mother. You failed once. And you swore that, no matter the cost, you would never fail again.

o0o

When you are eighteen by fire-count and twenty-two by world-count, he decides he's done with hunting. He leaves and you let him, even though you know you could have kept him.

He leaves behind the danger and blood and sweat and scent of killing. The stench of death is just a memory for him, now, instead of a reality he can't escape.

It hurts, his abandonment, his disregard of everything you've sacrificed, everything you've done. It hurts every part of you, from your heart to your soul to deep in your bones.

You were killed and reborn for him, and he leaves you behind with dust and memories.

o0o

When you are twenty-two by fire-count and twenty-six by world-count, you drag him kicking and screaming back into the life he so happily forgot.

You know what the cost will be and you couldn't care less.

Does it speak badly of you? Of course it does. But the price is worth it, and the end justifies the means—and if he knew everything, he'd agree.

But he doesn't know everything. And he never, _ever_ will.

o0o

When you are twenty-three by fire-count and twenty-seven by world-count, you finally confront face-to-face the thing that killed you.

It controls your father's body and says things that burn you, and he watches helpless to do a thing.

It taunts you and laughs at you and cuts you open—both figuratively and literally—and you know only two will survive.

So when it focuses on him again, when it turns away to hurt _him_, you open your mouth and kill yourself and sneer right back at it.

Only one thing has ever hurt so much, and that was five years ago.

o0o

You wake to darkness and silence and the smell of blood. You wake to the knowledge that you hurt everywhere and can't feel anything at the same time. You wake to Sammy unconscious in the driver's seat and Dad crushed shotgun and you realize you were wrong.

Only one will survive. And the loss—_theft_—of Dad hurts, but the relief of Sammy living smothers all regret.

o0o

You were born in fire. You lived in grief and pain and blood and innocence lost. You lived in hope and faith and love. You lived sacrifice.

And now you're bleeding-out in the backseat of your car—the one thing that never let you down—and you've never been so cold or felt so empty or so—lethargic? Is that a good word?

You were born in fire. A part of you wishes you'd died in the flames.

o0o

And you're dying. But it's okay. Because he's not.


	21. Home

**Title**: Home  
**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
**Warnings**: none, really. Spoilers for pilot and then AU somewhere after  
**Pairings**: None  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Wordcount: **351

* * *

**_I want to go home, Daddy._**

**_I know, baby. But home isn't there anymore. _**

**_Where is it? _**

**_It burned. _**

o0o

Home is where the heart is. Home is where you hang your hat. Home is where you flee when life gets too hard.

Home, home, home… a house or apartment decorated with your soul.

Home—barely remembered and yearned for with an intensity that stole your breath.

o0o

He can't remember, your little brother. All he knows is an endless supply of apartments and hotel rooms and the odd house now and then.

He can't remember safety, security, or happiness.

He has no memory of Momma, of her laughter or smile or scent or touch. He can't imagine the Daddy that lives in your memory.

He doesn't feel the pain of Momma being chased away by fire.

And you are just as thankful as you are jealous.

Not that you ever tell him that.

o0o

He is your home, he and your father. All you need. You'd say all you want, but it'd be a lie because you still yearn for her. You try your hardest to do what you think she would—feed them and mend them and try to hold everything together while it all falls apart.

You do what they need even when they don't know it. When they curse you for it.

You let Sammy go, even though it kills you.

And you bring him back, even though it kills Jessica and every dream of home he's ever had.

o0o

_**I want to go home, Daddy.**_

o0o

Your home is not a house or an apartment. Your home is not a place that can be found on a map. Your home is not the Impala, either. Your home isn't Dad or a gun in your hand or the smell of sweat, blood, or fire.

Your home is Sam. And you want to go home.

But home burned.

o0o

**_I want to go home, Daddy. _**

o0o

Home burned and you scattered his ashes to the wind.

Then you stuck a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger.


	22. Blip in Time

**Title**: Blip in Time

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: Dean, Sam, and Johnny aren't mine, alas, alack, oh my.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Faith"

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

* * *

Website after website, phone-call after phone-call—and nothing. No information, no ideas, no help at all. Dead end, one after another. Hope faint and fleeting.

Dean alone in the hospital room, hooked up to all them machines. Resigned to his death. Waiting for it.

But Sam dials contact after contact, determined. Dean's always been there for him. Always. No matter what he's needed, no matter what he's wanted. Dean let him go when he asked and Dean caught him when he fell after Jess, and he _will not_ fail Dean now.

He calls Dad and gets the voicemail, leaves a half-true message, angry and hurting and terrified out of his mind.

He can't lose Dean. He just _can't_.

Hangs up the phone, tosses is, stares at empty space. Tries to imagine a life without Dean—and can't.

Long as he remembers—longer—Dean has been there. Steady, sure, strong. Dean was forever, certain as the sun. And now—felled by a tragic, almost-never goddamned _accident_.

A world without Dean is beyond comprehension. Unable to contemplate. Impossible to fathom.

Seeing Dean lying there—still, silent, pale. Broken. Sam froze then moved, couldn't remember what to do.

Could barely remember to breathe.


	23. fingerprints

**Title**: Fingerprints

**Disclaimer**: Dean, Sam, and that bitch Sue Ann aren't my creations. I wrote this because I can.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Faith"; a smidge of language

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 200

**Dedication**: _H._--hope this is to your taste, love.

* * *

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_, Sam chants, howls, hisses as he beats on the wooden doors, the windows, the walls. _Fuck you, bitch, fuck you._

Dean's out there, alone in the dark, and Sue Ann is on some mission, trying to do the Lord's work—and Sam hates her. Doesn't care about her reasons, doesn't care if she's sick—Dean's in _danger_ and she is the reason.

Finally the way gives and he springs from confinements, rushes through the lot, looking for Sue Ann, looking for Dean. There's no time, no time at all, and he _can't_ lose Dean so soon after getting him back.

Can't lose Dean at _all_.

He listens for any hint of noise and there it is—soft murmurs, Latin—_oh, hell no, you bitch._

Sam lunges for the sound, grips Sue Ann's shoulder, whirls her around. The fear on her face fills him with joy—she deserves worse.

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. _

She tried to kill Dean—she's _still_ trying to kill Dean, and Sam wants to put his fist through her skull, to make her eat her heart—but settles on tearing off her necklace and shattering it on the ground.


	24. Like A Freight Train

**Title**: Like A Freight Train

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Literally, I don't.

**Warnings**: depressing. Very damned depressing.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 190

* * *

There's a tornado coming and nowhere to run, and this can't be how it ends.

Dean's bleeding out, Sam's got a broken leg and shattered ribs, and the tornado is on its fucking way like it's got their number and won't let them get away.

Lightning streaks across the sky, highlighting the twister; night fell somewhere between the spirit tossing Sam into a wall and him waking to the world gone mad.

"Dean?" Sam calls, unable to suck in enough air to really yell. No answer. Hasn't been for a while now.

And this just can't be how it ends.

He can only watch the tornado swirl along the earth, roaring and shrieking, coming like that's its only purpose.

"Dean?" he tries one final time, knowing he won't get another chance.

Dean hadn't wanted to take this job. Said something felt off about it.

But Sam insisted. Can't even remember why.

Lightning flashes again, and he can't think above the roar.

This just can't be how it ends, but Sam can't find the strength to try anymore.

The tornado tears away his one last try at calling his brother's name.


	25. Robin's Egg Blue

**Title**: Robin's Egg Blue

**Disclaimer**: Dean and Sammy aren't mine.  
**Warnings**: um... none?  
**Pairings**: none intended  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Wordcount**: 580  
**Notes**: I have no explanation for this. None whatsoever.

* * *

Dean's soul bleeds robin's egg blue. If Sam were in the mood to find anything funny, he might laugh forever. But he's not. So he doesn't. Instead, he watches with horror as all that is **Dean** continues to pour out the cuts on his spirit.

Sam wishes he had a band-aid big enough, strong enough, but he knows Dean's been bleeding for a while now.

Sam wishes he could wave a magic wand and heal all of Dean's hurt, return some of the happiness he knows died with Mom, just… **fix** things.

And Dean's soul keeps bleeding because Dean can't hear him say he's not leaving anymore. He's said it every way he knows how, but Dean's been burned and his guard's up and Sam's words fall on deaf ears.

**Robin's egg blue**? The **fuck**?

He wonders if Dean knows. Wonders if Dean'll ever heal, even if he **can**.

Sometimes he wants to tell Dean—_Hey, man, your soul's leaking all over the place, you know? Could you maybe work on that?_

So he tries to soothe Dean's fears without it being obvious—or noticeable at **all**, really—, tries to show Dean he meant what he said—he's **not** leaving. This is his life now, the hunt and the chase and the blood and **Dean**.

And it isn't that he doesn't have any other options, because they both know he does. He could walk away, return to school, and **live**.

It'd be easy. Far easier than this.

But he's not leaving. Not even if Dean pushes him away.

But Dean won't hear him and continues to bleed, leaking his essence all over the place, staining everything **that** shade of blue, and Sam knows something **has** to be done. Dean's wide open for anything that wants in, and that **just** won't do.

So he decides to make himself bleed, as well; his pain is the only thing that always catches Dean's attention. Instead of fighting his nightmares, he starts to sink into them.

And it hurts, but by the time Dean notices, it's become habit. Habits aren't supposed to form so quickly, it hasn't even been four days, and he's sluggish, drained.

Dean asks but Sam can't explain—that'd ruin everything.

He wonders what color his soul's bleeding, and Dean brushes his hair off his clammy forehead as he says, "Coral."

Both their eyes widen, weary hazel meeting worn-out green.

"Coral?" Sam scoffs with a nearly forced laugh, and Dean almost smiles. They lean together, supporting each other, and Sam rests his chin on Dean's head.

"What about me?" Dean asks quietly.

"Robin's egg blue," Sam answers.

Dean sighs and pulls away, looks up into Sam's eyes, bright for the first time in a week. "What's happening?" Dean whispers. "Seeing each other's souls?"

Sam shrugs. "Sure ain't normal." His lips quirk in a near-smile and he says, "But since when have **we** been normal?"

It's the closest he can come, but Dean understands. Dean **always** understands.

"So, can bleeding souls possibly be good?" Dean muses, standing and stretching.

"I doubt it," Sam responds, also rising. He yawns and Dean gently shoves him back on the bed.

"Sleep, Sammy," he admonishes. "I know what you've been doing the last few days."

Sam doesn't even try the puppy-dog look, the innocent eyes, or pouting, just sinks back with a sigh of relief.

"Coral," Dean laughs softly. "Robin's egg blue. Can't believe it."

He lies down on the other bed and stares at the ceiling.


	26. requiem

**Title**: Requiem

**Disclaimer**: Dean and Sam aren't mine.

**Warnings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point of view**: third

**Summary**: I asked my cousin for a word-prompt. He said _worms_.

* * *

He can hear them chewing, slithering through the dirt. He focuses on Dean breathing, trying to take his mind off their predicament—it's fainter than it was before.

"Dean?" he calls. "Dean!"

Dean doesn't answer. Hasn't in what feels like an hour. Sam moves again, shifts in the communal grave. It's silent, so silent—except for the chewing.

"Dean!" He puts all of his anger, all of his terror, into the word. If any part of Dean is still there, he'll have to reply. "Dean, please wake up."

The worms' chewing is his only answer. Again, Dean does not respond.


	27. On Phoenix Wings

**Title**: On Phoenix Wings

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Point of view**: third

**Wordcount**: 525

* * *

He's able to ignore the pit in his stomach for almost a year. But as November second approaches—Mama's death, Jessica's death, Daddy's death—something inside him twists and burns.

_I healed you_, that cold voice laughs. _I gave you back your life for your father's soul and an old gun._

He doubles over in the shower, gasping for air, tears brimming in his eyes. His voice is gone and he hears his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

_Your father and I had a deal,_ It continues, and he feels an ice-cold touch on his lips. _But Johnny has never been the one I wanted._

He wants to call out for Sammy but Sam's gone, fetching food. He wants Dad back, Dad alive—_I can do that for you, Dean_.

Blood drips down his chest, slices opening in his skin. _Make a deal with me, Dean, a binding agreement of blood and tears. I'll give Daddy back and relinquish my claim to Sammy—if you, lovely boy, give me what I want. _

He slumps down, heartbeat echoing loudly, gasping for breath—he can't get enough air to fill his lungs, and blood keeps spilling out. Water pours from the showerhead, hitting his back, and the tub is slick against his flesh. The pain burns all over his body.

He'd forgotten what day it is. Wrapped up in Sammy, it slipped his mind.

November second. Day of death and blood and fire and tears.

_I took Mary and Jessica and John—I stole your life and lit it aflame_. Icy touch to his temple, above his heart, trailing along the gaping gashes. _I killed your hope and destroyed your future. And now, Dean, soldier and brother, I offer you a chance to save your Sammy from my grasp. _

Sam's out getting food.

_You've ignored me for nearly a year, Dean. But now the time has come. Give me what I want and I'll release baby brother. Deny me and I take him forever._ The shadow becomes visible, shapes itself into an almost-human form. Its lips twist as it kneels beside him, raises his head.

Blood still pours from him, sluggishly slowing down. He's growing cold, losing his grip on consciousness.

He wants to see Sam again.

His voice is gone but he thinks, with all the clarity left to him, _Do whatever. But let Sammy go. _

Artic touch, whisperslick along his spine. _Done_.

Fire swirls around him but doesn't burn. Laughter fills his senses, dangerous and deadly, and he sinks into the darkness, unable to hold his eyes open anymore.

He just wants to see Sammy again. Just wants to apologize for everything he's done that embarrassed Sammy, that hurt him. He wants to say goodbye.

But he has no voice and Sam isn't here.

So he slips into darkness and fire, and his heart stops as all his lifeblood flows out.

One more touch to his forehead, icy and hard. _My boy_, the shadow whispers. _Welcome to the new world. _

He doesn't answer, can't; fire roars.

_Tell me, Dean. Tell me to take you. _

Sam will be safe.

_Take me. _

Fire screams.

_Sammy. _


	28. Memory

**Title**: Memory

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: supposing the "Supernatural" vampires were more like "Buffy" vampires, this is AU. I suppose I've implied a smidge of character death. Only a little.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 470

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

There are certain things you remember long after you've forgotten everything else.

The feel of sunlight on your skin is one. The heat you rarely noticed, the warmth that seeped into your bones, the joy that is only the hint of a memory now.

The taste of chocolate is another. All things taste like ash now, bitter and dry on your tongue. All but blood. You dream of chocolate sometimes, of M&M's, of cake. You wake starving and always hunt with great self-loathing.

The scent of home. Something you never noticed until it was faded. Something you didn't know you needed until the choice of reclaiming it was stolen, never to be had again. Sweat, gunpowder, fire, lilac, and leather—a combination you've tried to recreate but never managed.

The sound of his breathing. It echoes in your ears sometimes. You close your eyes and listen, think back, call to mind the little you still remember.

And the sight of him, gloriously alive, laughing and glaring and smiling and smirking, eyes full of exuberance and pain and joy and rage and hope and love, standing tall and strong—you had been so sure he could never falter, never fumble, never fail, never fall…

But he did. He fell to his knees and you gently wrapped your arms around him, you softly pressed your lips to his neck, and he moaned a little when your fangs broke his skin.

He smelled like home. He tasted of life. And you were so young, so new, you could not control yourself.

You once believed him to be forever.

He died in your arms because you were weak. And now you wake every night to kill everything like you. You feed only enough to survive and you hunt your kind.

Sometimes, when you scope the territory out before making yourself known, you hear of the Hunter, of Winchester. He is called the best to have ever lived. It is said that none he marks survive. You smirk and sip your water.

It tastes like ash but you can almost recall its taste before.

They argue, your prey, about which Winchester it is. They say the father would be too old now, the elder son too brash, and the youngest too inexperienced to have lasted this long.

The same points over and over, in every territory across the US. They never can agree.

They never believe the Hunter has arrived until your gun spits fire and roars, until your blade slashes and tears, until they are dust in the still night air and you stand alone.

By dusk the next night you are gone and Dean's charm ensures you are never remembered.

No matter how many you kill, it will never be enough. And, on your tongue, you can still taste his blood.


	29. Weather Patterns

**Title**: Weather Patterns

**Dislcaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot and "Devil's Trap"; AU for "In My Time Of Dying"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 450

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It's snowing, covering up the blemishes of the world. Dean stands in the backyard, face towards the sky. His eyes are closed, expression serene. The snowflakes drift down around him and some stick to his hair.

Dad's on a hunt and Sam's asleep. The world is quiet, calm, and Dean's happy. He thinks, perhaps, life is getting better. Maybe when Dad comes back, he and Sam will get along, stop fighting, quit putting him in the middle.

Dean is fifteen.

o0o

It's storming. Wind howls and rain streams down. Looking out the window, Dean can't see anything; the rain is too thick.

Dad is glowering at the gun in his hand, cleaning it harshly. Everything he isn't saying echoes loudly in Dean's ears.

Sam is banging around their room, muttering and cursing; Dean winces when he hears his name.

Dean says nothing, doesn't move. Dad slams the gun on the table and continues to the next one. Sam shuts the door to the bathroom with a bang.

Dean is nineteen.

o0o

There are no words to convey what Dean wants to say. He thought Sam knew, he really did, but if Sam ever could hear him, he can't now.

Dad stormed out the apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Dean sits on the bed in his room. He's silent, still.

Sam enters slowly, hesitantly. Whatever he wants to say, he can't find the words, either. Dean meets his eyes and Sam looks away. Dean tries to smile, to assure Sam that everything will be okay.

But his lips can't hold the smile and his tongue feels too heavy to move.

Sam stands in the doorway for a moment more then sighs and walks away.

Dean is twenty-two.

o0o

It's a beautiful day. The sun shines, not a cloud in the sky. The world is quiet, hazy. Dean tries to move but his body doesn't respond. Through the window, he can see the endless horizon.

Beyond the building, he can hear the wind. Sighs and murmurs echo in his mind, soft noises that catch and keep his attention. In them he can make out words, just two. _Dean_ and _sorry_. Over and over, he hears the wind say his name and apologize.

In the hall, people rush by, talking. He can't understand the words, can't turn his head. But he sees outside the window, he watches the azure sky.

Dean is twenty-seven. He can't remember what happened. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know where Sam is, if he's okay.

He remembers screaming metal, golden eyes, and pain.

He tries to move, to speak, but all he can do is look out the window, at the infinite sky.


	30. Memorial

**Title**: Memorial

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: sometime in the future, I guess

**Pairings**: none

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

You bury him at dawn. It's only right. And no matter how chick-flicky it is, you wish you'd told him how much light he shone into your life.

He'd hate you for shoving him into the ground, but you don't have it in you to burn him. Too much has been consumed by flames, and you won't let the fire claim _him_, too.

Maybe he'll haunt you. You wish he would, wish he'd never let you alone. In life, you never appreciated him, took him for granted. But now…

Now, you know exactly what was stolen from you when his heart failed.

You bury him at dawn and watch the light crawl across the world. You do not cry, can't—he wouldn't want your tears. Later, alone in a motel room, perhaps in the shower with scalding water burning your shoulders, when there's no one to stitch your wounds and calm you after vision/nightmares, when no one makes inappropriate jokes or calls you _Bitch_—then you will cry.

But at his grave, unmarked and lonely, your eyes are dry.

The sun bathes the world with warmth, but you shiver.

He'd hate you for this.

Maybe he'll haunt you.

You hope.


	31. After

**Title**: After

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for the end of season 1

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 920

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean never thought about **_after_** for one very simple reason: there wouldn't be one.

He's known that as long as he's known his name.

o0o

It began in fire. It's only right it ends the same.

o0o

Sam always thought about **_after_**. He made up stories about their adventures—they were better than Han Solo and Indiana Jones and Batman and Wolverine rolled into one, _SamandDean_, like one person, the best superheroes **ever.** They saved kids and mommas and dogs and the world—Dad was always in the background, their home base. They'd go to him for patching up and advice and stories of Mom.

Slowly, Sam's thoughts of **_after_** changed. He imagined a life without blood or pain or death. He imagined a true home. A place that felt **lived in**, not an endless supply of hotels and apartments, empty rooms filled with nothing but false promises. He wanted safety and security, no more bruises or scars.

Sam's **_after_** became a longing for the home he couldn't remember but Dean would tell him about if he asked.

o0o

It began with blood. It's only right ends the same.

o0o

John's **_after_** was only ever one thing: deep, comforting sleep with Mary in his arms.

He wouldn't live past the finish of his quest. He wouldn't see the lives his sons would make for themselves.

And he's always been okay with that, because even right after that November night he was bone-tired. So, so weary… for twenty-three years, all he ever wanted was to touch her one more time.

His **_after_** will be with her for eternity.

o0o

It began because of sacrifice. It could only ever end the same.

o0o

Sam woke in a sterile hospital room that smelled like starched death. Bobby slouched in the chair next to the window, Dad's journal held loosely in his hands. Sam catalogued his wounds on autopilot, only one thought playing in his mind like a broken record: _Where's Dean? Where's Dean? Where's Dean?_

His right leg was broken. So were three of his ribs. And his left wrist. His whole body felt tender.

"You were beat to hell, boy," Bobby's rough voice said and Sam focused on him. "You killed it, though, the three'a ya. Somehow." Bobby sat up straight, stretching and groaning. He reached over and placed the journal on the bed.

"Dad?" Sam tried. His throat ached and burned when the word came out.

Bobby shook his head. "I… I had him cremated, Sam," he said. "There wasn't enough, really, to bury."

Sam closed his eyes and remembered to breathe. It hurt, hurt more than he could imagine.

Bobby answered his next question before he could force himself to ask.

"He's gone."

o0o

It began with love. Love alone would be able to see it done at last.

o0o

Sam woke again days later. There was nothing to wake for—Dad was dead. Dean—

The quest, the crusade, the vengeance—done. Why should he wake to a world where he had **nothing**?

Because he had to know.

Bobby was there when he opened his eyes. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"It trapped us in Lawrence, in the house," Sam whispered. "Dad had the gun. It… it'd possessed a child, a little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl in a pink dress. I think… I think it expected him to hesitate, you know?" He glanced up at Bobby, who nodded. "But he didn't. He shot her straight between her sky-blue eyes." Sam closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly with his right hand. "And all its children—I think they were its kids—attacked us. They tore Dad apart. And Dean…"

At last, the sobs came. He turned away from Bobby as well he could and fell apart.

o0o

Dean had known he wouldn't have an **_after_**. There's only so much a body can take before it gives out.

The soul's the same.

o0o

Sometimes, Sam dreams of his parents, dancing in the sky. Mom wears her wedding gown with her golden hair flowing down her back. Dad wears jeans and a dark T-shirt, both stained with oil. They whirl and twirl and kiss and laugh and smile.

Sam's never seen his dad so happy and young. He'd only seen his mom once that he remembers, and she'd looked so weary—but here, here with Dad—

Sam always wakes from the dream with tears in his eyes.

o0o

Sam moves to Florida and stays away from fire.

o0o

Sometimes, he dreams of his childhood with Dean. Dreams of pranks and fights and blood and pain. Dreams of gentle hands stitching him up and a soft voice saying, "It'll be okay, Sammy."

He wakes himself up sobbing because of those.

o0o

Sam moves to Florida and hates the sight of blood.

o0o

Sometimes, he dreams of Jessica. She smiles and laughs and tells him to **live**, because too many people have died for him to give up.

He wakes knowing she's right.

o0o

Sam moves to Florida, goes back to school, gets a job as a paralegal, and finally becomes a lawyer.

Sam moves to Florida and never goes to the beach, never hangs out with people his own age, choosing instead to talk with old men who share stories of days long ago.

Sam moves to Florida and watches the sun rise every day.

Sam moves to Florida and tells people his name is Dean Johnson.

o0o

Sam moves to Florida and exorcises his first ghost three months later.

o0o

Bobby drives the Impala down and flies back home. Sam's never been as good with cars as Dean, but he knows that doesn't matter.

It's been a year since he woke and he stares at Dean's baby with hazy eyes.

If he looks just right—

Maybe Dean has _**after**_, after all.


	32. Lullaby for Cain

**Title**: Lullaby for Cain

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Lyrics are "Cain's Mother: A Lullaby" from The Talented Mr. Ripley soundtrack. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for pilot and "Home"

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 655

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_From the silence, from the night  
Comes a distant lullaby. _

* * *

Mary never had a chance, and only looking back after her death does she realize it.

Her sister had fallen, and her brother, and finally her mother—it was in her blood, the weakness and the curse. It was in her blood and tissue, deep in her bones. She'd thought she could escape it by fleeing to John, thought the innocence in his skin could save her from the experience of hers.

She'd been wrong.

* * *

_Cry, remember that first cry,  
Your brother's standing by,  
And lot of loved  
Beloved sons of mine. _

* * *

Danielle and Cade told her she wouldn't make it, that she couldn't—they were who they were, what they were, and it could not be outrun, could not be left behind.

"You'll only bring pain upon him," Mother whispered on the air her wedding night. "You'll only bring him grief."

Mary didn't listen, refused to—she would escape.

* * *

_Sing a lullaby.  
Mother is close by.  
Innocent days  
Such innocent eyes  
And he stole your brother's life,  
Came home murdered, peace of mind. _

* * *

Dean entered the world, a beacon of triumph, and Mary knew she'd succeeded. Nothing still in thrall of the dark could shine so brightly. His blood was pure, as was John's—the darkness of Mary had been eradicated in this little boy.

Mary looked into his hazel eyes and saw herself on his fourth birthday. Saw the knowledge and the sacrifice and the curse—

That night she sobbed in John's arms and the next day told him she was pregnant.

"What did I say, daughter?" her mother's voice asked. "What did I swear would happen?"

"I know," she answered, and pulled Dean close.

* * *

_Left you nightmares on the pillow.  
Sleep now _

* * *

Sam's eyes were turning green, something Mary rejoiced. John had brown eyes, innocent doe eyes; Dean had her own haunted hazel. Everyone in her family had hazel, everyone who was cursed, and only her younger sister Megan had escaped—

"Mommy," Dean asked the night of Sam's six-month birthday, "do dreams come true?"

"Some of them," she said softly. "What did you dream?"

"I don't like fire anymore," was all he said, but she understood.

* * *

_Soul, surrendering your soul,  
The heart in you not whole  
For love, but love walked on _

* * *

"Daughter, you are better than this!" her mother's voice screamed as she ran up the stairs. "Accept what is in your blood! Embrace it! He is only a demon!"

**_Only a demon. Only a demon. Only a demon. _**

Mary knew those three words would echo in her son's head for years to come.

She fought and died as a human. Her son would fight and die as something more.

Maybe he had more love than she did.

* * *

_Cast into the dawn  
Branded with the mark.  
Oh, shame of Cain. __

* * *

_

John never did understand. Sam never could, even if he did channel Dean's visions.

Sometimes, Mary would visit Dean in his sleep, would explain something to him.

When he was ten he asked, "Are we evil?"

She answered, "Do you think we are?" which told him everything he needed to know.

* * *

_From a garden of those light  
To a wilderness of night. _

* * *

Mary thought she could escape her destiny by marrying a man. Thought she could escape the darkness of her blood.

Dean knew he never could and one day he'd embrace it. Until then, he had Sam to keep all the demons at bay. Sam who didn't know and never would; Sam who thought he'd been the chosen one.

Sam who was purer than Dean'd ever been.

* * *

_Sleep now _

* * *

"You're just like your daddy," Missouri told Sam, patting his cheek, smiling into his dark green eyes. "Just like him."

She spared barely a glance at Dean, who only smiled, knowledge peering from behind his hazel eyes.

**_Bitch, _**he thought, knowing she heard. **_Mom never did like you._**

_

* * *

__Sleep now _


	33. Sacrifice

**Title**: Sacrifice

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU before pilot

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 265

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

They say sacrifice isn't easy. But for Dean, it's always been.

o0o

A pint of blood here, an hour there, a few more missing pieces of a long-shattered soul—not hard, never hard, because he's never known anything different.

Four years doesn't really count when it's barely remembered and forgetting's easy when you never had a home.

o0o

Dean's bled, cried, and died. Dean's hunted, tortured, and killed.

In another world, Dean could have been a psychopath. In another world, Dean could have been a hero.

In another world, Dean might have had a chance.

o0o

In another world, Mary didn't die. Dean did. And normality swallowed the Winchester's whole.

_o0o_

_Tell me_, the moon whispers to what Dean's become, _tell me you don't regret._

_You have to have a soul to regret, _he whispers back, _and mine vanished long ago. _

o0o

Days pass and turn to months and then years. The world moves on, not knowing its' closer to damnation because he's gone and died.

And in Stanford, away from the hunt and pain and blood, Sam keeps on walking.

o0o

They say sacrifice isn't easy. Dean says different.

Dying had never been easier, and the thing wearing his face just keeps on laughing.

o0o

The sun rises, as always, and John doesn't know. Can't know. Dean's gone home to Mary and Sam's graduating college, and Dean's body is still walking and talking.

The sun rises and the sky turns crimson red.

o0o

In another world, Dean might have had a chance.

o0o

After all, sacrifice doesn't count when you do it for selfish reasons.


	34. Watercolors and stick figures

**Title**: Watercolors and stick figures

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Excerpt(with permission)from "Artifacts" by tigremere. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 425

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Watercolors and stick figures  
Faded masterpieces created by hands  
That were small a long time ago _

* * *

Sammy brought home an art project once. It was a monstrosity of glue and purple paper and yellow paint. It was wrinkled and funny-looking and Daddy wasn't there to tell him it was beautiful.

Dean was, though.

o0o

Sammy brought home a painting once. Sticky finger paints(green and blue) and thick paper(red) and he couldn't wait to show Daddy his landscape, because Mrs. Munroe said it was so good and how much Daddy would like it.

Daddy patted his head as he went out the door and didn't glance at the painting.

Dean did, though.

o0o

Sam brought home a recommendation for honors courses once. He placed the note on the counter, next to Dad's beer. He went to his room, pulled out _The Once and Future King_ and pretended to be anywhere else.

Dean slipped into the apartment an hour later and read the letter.

Dad never saw it and they moved the next week, anyway.

o0o

Sam brought home an award for creative writing once. The story was about a family that moved around because the dad was never happy and how they slowly fell apart.

Mr. Williams praised Sam's intricate details and understanding of fraying family relations; he had no idea Sam wrote from personal experience because Sam didn't share anymore.

Dean read the story. Sam pretended to not notice when Dean's voice broke as he said, "Good job, Sammy."

Dad didn't notice the award on the fridge or the way Dean almost glared at him.

o0o

Sam brought home an acceptance letter from Stanford once.

Dad noticed that one.

Dad told him he couldn't go. Dean said he could.

Dean said he had to. Dad said it wasn't Dean's call.

Dean said it wasn't **his**, either, it was **Sam's**.

"And Sam made the choice a long time ago, Dad," Dean finished quietly, staring straight into his father with his mother's eyes. "He isn't like us. This isn't his crusade. Let him go."

Sam sat in his room with his back against the door, music blaring, the letter clenched in his fists.

Dad said "If you leave, don't come back."

Sam said, "Fine."

Dean didn't say, "You don't have to leave me, too," but he did say, "Goodbye."

o0o

Sammy brought home an art project once.

Three years and two months after Sam leaves for his dreams, Dean's alone in another hotel room and he pulls it out, smoothes it down, and wonders where the hell those days went.


	35. the fires were built on the highest peak

**Title**: the fires were built on the highest peak, in hopes they'd see the light

**Disclaimer**: Brittany's mine. And her family. And that guy she makes out with. That's it. Title from "Jacob's Dream," performed by Allison Krauss.

**Warnings**: um… somewhat disturbing? Manipulative sex. Fairly dark.

**Pairings**: Dean/OFC, implied Dean/Sam, OFC/OMC

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 705

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written for the _darkdean_ ficathon on LJ, to the prompt of _why Dean's eyes bled_.

**Dedication**: to the awesome _H.T.Marie_ for giving this a looksie even though it ain't exactly her cup of hot chocolate.

* * *

Her eyes were bright blue, like the sky. Her smile was beautiful, full of life and light. She told him to call her Brittany, and he knew it wasn't her name.

But it was okay, because he told her to call him Danny.

-

She was a good person, a high-school senior with perfect grades and perfect attendance. She had a little sister and an older brother, two parents married for twenty-nine years, and a future.

Dean believed everything she said, because he could read the truth in her eyes, and nice girls don't lie.

-

Brittany never had sex before that night in the Impala. She was a good girl, and good girls saved themselves for marriage.

She told him that her husband would have red hair and green eyes—she'd seen him in her dreams. Dean told her that he'd never have a wife.

-

She called him Danny and whimpered when she came. He bit deep into her shoulder and pretended she was someone else, someone harder, someone taller with dark hair and green eyes, someone who was a country away and never looked back.

She sobbed in his arms, after, and asked if she was going to Hell. Dean didn't answer, just fingered her 'til she came a second time.

-

Her brother's name was Cal, and he was a marine. Her little sister went by Catie, and she was a freshmen cheerleader.

Dean didn't say anything about his brother or his father, just kissed her again.

-

They only spent that one night together and he didn't see her for three weeks. But then there she was on the street one afternoon, hair golden in the sunlight, and he had to have her again.

So he parked down the block and tailed her to the movie theater, where she met up with some brunet boy, slipped her dainty little hand into his, and walked in side-by-side.

Instead of the movie, Dean watched them. His pretty little virgin wasn't a virgin anymore, and she seemed to be reveling in it. She was practically in the kid's lap, all roaming hands and questing tongue, and Dean _wanted_.

After the film, the boy walked her home. They made out some more, beneath the shadows of the giant oak in the backyard.

Everything Dean claimed left him in the end, he realized by light of the cold moon. It was time to start rectifying that.

-

The brunet's name was Charlie Lincoln, and he lived just down the road from the apartment Dean and Dad had for the duration of the hunt.

A hint couldn't get much more blatant than that, so Dean took it.

-

Charlie Lincoln was found outside of town two mornings later, mangled and bloody. They were only able to identify him by his teeth.

Brittany came crawling back to Dean, begging him to make her feel better. So he did, with rough hands and brutal kisses, and she wept in thanks.

-

Her eyes weren't quite so blue when dawn came, but her hair was still golden. Her smile wasn't so bright, but her lips still felt warm beneath his.

"You're mine," he whispered in her ear, soft and low, and she moaned, twisting in his grip.

There were bruises on her pale skin, marking her, branding her, and he claimed her again with his mouth. He imagined it was someone else beneath him, someone who never should have left—someone who would probably never be back.

When she whimpered and begged, he just bit harder.

-

A week after, he and Dad left town. Dean didn't tell her goodbye, didn't give a single indication that the last night was any different from the seven others. He didn't look back as he followed Dad's truck in the Impala.

-

_You killed him, _Bloody Mary hissed in his mind. _You killed the girl, too, slaughtered her innocence with your bruising touch._

Blood trickled down his cheeks. He could feel Charlie's face against his fists again, could hear the boy's sobbing gasps.

_Murderer, _the dead woman snarled. _Monster. You don't deserve to live, not with your sins._

He saw the mirror and he picked it up, without an ounce of regret; in his mind, there was nothing but quiet, and Sam's harsh breath.


	36. it doesn't mean that I love you any less

**Title**: it doesn't mean that I love you any less  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Wait" by Sarah McLachlan.  
**Warnings**: pre-pilot  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 190  
**Point** **of** **view**: third  
**Notes**: written because the lovely _eloisebright_ requested Winchesters hugging.

* * *

Sam can't look him the eye. Can't bear to meet his solemn, sad gaze. 

"Go get 'em, Sammy," Dean says gruffly, hand warm and solid on his shoulder. "Show those spoiled kids what-for."

Dean's doing what he always does: putting Sam first. It just expounds Sam's guilt at leaving.

But not enough to stay.

"You could come with me," he tries for the thousandth time. He gets the same result as all the rest.

Dean shakes his head. "Dad needs me, Sammy. But you go." He almost smiles, but the expression falls off his face. "It's what you want, right?"

Sam nods, blinking quickly. He hasn't cried in over a year. He's not going to now, not in front of Dean.

Dean's hand moves from his shoulder to his neck, lightly gripping. "Stay safe, Sam," he whispers, and lets his hand fall away.

Sam wants to grab him, pull him close, never let go--but he doesn't. Because Dean just said goodbye. "I'll see you, Dean," he says.

Dean nods. "'course you will." He turns away and walks back to the car, leaving Sam alone in the drizzling rain.


	37. Myth of Freedom

**Title**: Myth of Freedom

**Disclaimer**: the Winchester boys and all their pretty issues aren't mine. just for fun.

**Warnings**: implied non-con, pedophilia, spoilers for up to "Folsom Prison Blues"

**Pairings**: OMC/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 590

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written for _spnboc_ to the song title "Myth of Freedom"

**More notes**: not in chronological order

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Dean Winchester does not enjoy the Fourth of July. Dad'd be disappointed if he knew, but about this one thing? Dean doesn't care. Sammy likes it, though, so Dean always takes him to the firework show at wherever they are.

The bright colors and loud booms remind Dean of blood.

o0o

He doesn't remember much—a small mercy. He thinks he may have howled, but knows he never begged. Knows he didn't do much more than whimper, probably, and swear vengeance.

Unfortunately for the nightmares, that vengeance never came to pass.

o0o

Sam always points out the most beautiful fireworks, purple and green and gold and red, lighting up the night sky like dawn.

Dean barely keeps down the bile, wanting to double over and clean himself out. His hands clench into shaky fists, and he blinks back fear and pain and lingering rage—it's over, it's done, he's moved past it.

_Look at that one, Dean!_ Sammy shrieks, laughter threading through the words.

Dean does, tasting blood and come in the back of his throat.

o0o

It reenters his consciousness in spurts, over years. He's never been truly free of it, and he never truly will be. He used to imagine that he could outrun it, when it was just shadows on his dreamscape, but now—

Sometimes, he just stands still and shudders, again feeling the grip of those hands on his skin.

o0o

It only lasted a day, barely, and then he escaped. Ran for the hills and didn't look back, fled to Dad and Sammy. He hadn't been gone long, and he'd told Dad nothing. He was thirteen and he'd stormed out after a rare fight. But he came back, hiding pain. _He came back_, and that's what he told himself to get through the years.

o0o

For a long time, Dean can't stand anyone but Dad and Sammy touching him. He doesn't flinch away, but his whole body stiffens at any other touch. He can't think with anyone's flesh next to his, anyone but Dad or Sammy.

He gets over that, finally, when he discovers girls. But he still can't suffer men touching him.

o0o

Over the years, Dean shoves the memories to the back of his mind; they only reveal themselves in nightmares he can't explain to Dad or Sam.

o0o

He's twenty-five when he sees the man for the first time since then; he's at a bar, a country away from Sam and twelve states away from Dad.

Dean remembers those hands and that voice and how the man tasted. For the life of him, he can't remember the bastard's name, but that doesn't matter.

It's the second hardest thing Dean's ever done, but he flirts with the man and leads him to the hotel room. He lets(_lets, lets, lets_, it's different, this time) the man fuck him and takes no pleasure. That hasn't changed. And after the man is sated and loose, stretched out next to him, Dean slips from the bed to rifle through his bags, looking for his favorite knife.

o0o

He's twenty-seven and wonders why they only have three first-degree murders on his record.

He still hates July Fourth and Sam still loves it, despite—well, despite everything. So they check out the firework show and Dean watches Sam's boy-like joy.

He turns his gaze to the sky, how it's painted and beautiful, and fancies that he tastes blood and come.

Dean closes his eyes and wonders, for just a single heartbeat, if he'll ever be free.

He doubts it, and Sam's laugh rings out.


	38. Decomposition of a Soul

**Title**: Decomposition of a Soul

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: Completely oddball. Completely experimental.

* * *

When the hero falls, there's supposed to be something. Anything.

Not silence and muted grief.

o0o

When the hero falls...

--silence--

_forgive me _

--Ican't--

o0o

And the sun keeps on shining. Birds are singing. Clouds float merrily on their way and the bells in the church keep ringing, sounding out the time, and shouldn't everything be **over**?

He's **gone**. The world should be **dead**.

But it's not.

It's **not**.

o0o

He was the hero. **Him**. Selfless. Noble. Honorable and good and all that epic hero shit that he'd deny till the day he--

Till the day he--

He **died**.

o0o

His body. **Body**. corpse. Cold and unmoving and eyes that still stared but saw nothing. **Nothing**. Eyes that **said** nothing.

He lay still. Stiller than he'd ever been before. The stillness of a tomb. An unmarked grave forever forgotten.

But he **won't** be forgotten.

Nor will he be **forgiven**.

o0o

When the hero falls, everything is over. The villain wins. It isn't right and it isn't fair--but, in the end, maybe that was the only way it could ever have really gone.

o0o

--silence--

_forgive me_

--Ican't--

_please_

--never--

o0o

When the hero falls, it's only right his brother rises alone and becomes the thing he's always fought.

When the hero's way fails, it's only right his brother turns to the other side for vengeance.

When the hero dies, it's only right that everything that was right becomes wrong.

When the hero dies, it's only right his brother realizes their crusade is useless and the only way to defeat the dark is to--

o0o

_forgive me_

--never--

o0o

--embrace it.


	39. do or die

**Title**: do or die 

**Fandom**: "Supernatural" 

**Disclaimer**: the Winchesters aren't mine, alas 

**Warnings**: sometime during season one, I think 

**Pairings**: none 

**Rating**: PG 

**Wordcount**: 205 

**Point** **of** **view**: third 

**Notes**: for **_iamstealthyone_**, to the prompt of "Glazed."

* * *

Dean's whimpering again. 

Sam flinches at the sound, caught off-guard every time. It's just… not right, not right at all for Dean to make that noise. He's _Dean_. 

The pain killer isn't working. Sam's whole left side aches, but he got the good part of the deal. At least he wasn't almost shredded. He shudders at the images flickering in his brain—nightmare fodder for a lifetime. 

Dean tries to roll over and groans, lashing out at something that's not there. Sam moves as swiftly as he can to his brother's side. 

He whispers, "Dean," placing a gentle touch to Dean's shoulder. "You're dreaming, man. It's alright, we're both alright." Not quite a lie—they're both alive. 

Dean's eyelids flicker open. "Sammy?" he murmurs. 

"Yeah. I'm fine, Dean." Sam came so close to losing Dean; he wants to shake Dean until he swears to never do something that stupid again—but it won't do any good. He'd settle for clutching Dean close and never letting go, but Dean won't allow that, either. 

Dean's hand grips Sam's wrist. "You swear?" he asks, voice less than a murmur. Dream must have been bad, then. 

"Promise," Sam says. 

His grip loosens around Sam and he slips back under. 


	40. NinetyNine Bottles of Beer

**Title**: Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for The Big Stanford Fight

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 235

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: _stealthyone_

**Prompt**: Acrid

* * *

Mary would kick his ass. 

John stares at the wall behind the bar, hand loose around his glass. The smell of smoke pervades his space—fire roars in his memory.

Sam's gone, part of Dean with him. Dean's waiting back at the room, though, waiting for John to crawl in at the buttcrack of dawn, drunk and rambling, burning with anger.

Sam's gone, a thousand miles away, out of John's protective reach. Wants _normal_ and _safe_, like either of those things exists. Like he couldn't die in a car crash or robbery, like demons and ghosts are the only dangers out there. Like the dark will turn away from him, since he's turned away from it.

John drains his glass and gestures to the 'keep for another. Drains that one and slams the glass down.

Sam's gone and Dean's shattered, and John's fucked up so well Humpty's good and broke. Sam left, because he's got the Winchester stubborn streak, and nothing will bring him back. Nothing.

John wants Mary alive again, wants her in his arms, wants her scent and her touch, her voice and her smile. Wants her, because she could fix this situation. She could bring Sam home, she could make Dean smile again.

But John's chased Sam to California, and Dean's beating himself up in the lonely motel room, and John's sitting at a bar, drowning his sorrows, but the bastards never die.


	41. Escape

**Title**: Escape  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.  
**Warnings**: pre-pilot  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Point of view**: third  
**Notes**: written for the supernatural100 challenge #44: speed.

* * *

It began as a dream. Simple, seductive, soothing… safe. 

It began as hope of a life away from the never-ending hunt, away from blood and pain and death. 

It began as fervent longing and ended as obsession. 

He supposes he is his father's son, after all, though he'll never admit the fact aloud. 

He's always running, and he knows it. He knows there's no escape, but damned if he'll stop trying. 

Running faster and faster, farther and farther, running from something he can never leave behind. 

It began as a dream. That's all it ever can be. 

Ever will be. 


	42. from an apple golden

**Title**: from an apple golden  
**Disclaimer**: the young woman in the Rockies is mine. that's all.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "In My Time Of Dying." AU  
**Pairings**: John/Mary  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 645  
**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Her eyes burn gold in the sunlight. John blinks and they're hazel again. She laughs, a sound he loves, and beckons for him to join her in the meadow.

This is the day of Dean's conception.

o0o

Her eyes shimmer gold in the candlelight. "I love you, Johnny," she whispers, nuzzling close, threading her fingers in his dark hair. "Promise to never leave me."

"I swear," he murmurs back, the easiest oath he's ever made.

Dean is still just a bump on her belly.

o0o

Her eyes are golden, the pupils gone. "Hello, love," she says, stepping close.

John glances around; he does not recognize the room. "Where are we?" he asks.

She smiles. "You'll be in this cabin again one day. You'll understand everything then, John."

He wakes; she's curled up on his chest, peacefully sleeping. He slips back under. When he wakes again at sunrise, the dream is forgotten.

o0o

Her eyes are clear hazel as she screams, begs for Dean to slide from her womb.

The first time John holds his son, Dean's eyes are golden. John blinks and they're hazel, just like Mary's.

o0o

Sam is conceived as a storm rages outside. Dean sleeps curled up in his sheets and John looks into Mary's hazel eyes.

o0o

Mary dies when John's second boy is six months old. John holds their sons, huddled on the Impala's hood, and remembers a dream of four years ago, when Mary had golden eyes.

"Daddy," Dean whispers.

John meets his firstborn's gaze; in the reflected fire, his eyes appear golden.

"I want Mommy," Dean tells him.

"I want her, too," John responds.

Sammy sobs.

o0o

Over the years, Sam's eyes are always green. But Dean's are sometimes golden, whenever intense emotions swirl in him.

And John, as he learns about the shadow-world that stole his Mary, begins to wonder. He remembers that handful of times where Mary's eyes were the color of sunlight.

But John never speaks to her boys about it.

o0o

John finds a young woman high in the Rockies who tells him shadows cling to his younger child.

He replies that it's not Sammy he's worried about.

She laughs. "Fire surrounds your firstborn, hunter. Be wary of him."

John nods and leaves, going to ground.

o0o

He wakes a prisoner in his own body, Dean held to the wall before him.

_We've been here before, Johnny_, a dark voice whispers, echoing through him. _Remember? When I wore your pretty little wife. _

Dean says, "Yeah, I bet you're real proud of your kids, too, huh?" He smirks. "Oh, wait—I wasted 'em."

John can do nothing as the demon begins shredding Dean's chest, digging deep. _Please, stop_, he begs. _Let him go_.

_No, Johnny_, the demon says gently. _He is mine_.

John reaches into his soul and body, pulling up all his will—for an instant, he halts the demon, long enough for Sammy to act.

_You think you'll beat me, you and Mary's boys?_ The demon laughs. _Mine prove true, Johnny. Sammy is shadowed, powerful, but Dean_—the demon streams out of him.

John collapses, everything aching.

o0o

"Mary," he asks, alone in his hospital room. "What happened? Were you… were you _you_ when we had Dean?"

He hears her laughter echo.

o0o

He trades himself for Dean, hoping the demon will let his son go. He tells Dean goodbye and part of the truth, not believing it'll be enough.

Maybe if Dean has Sam to care for, it'll keep him right.

The demon smirks with its host's mouth. "Be happy, John," it says. "You'll see your love soon. You can ask her."

It laughs.

o0o

John wakes in the cabin he's been in twice before. Mary crouches next to him, in her white nightgown; her eyes are their beautiful hazel.

"I'm sorry, John," she sobs. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't strong enough."

He pulls her close and buries his face in her hair.


	43. wherever you go, I will go

**Title**: wherever you go, I will go

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from _Ruth_.

**Warnings**: none. Could be read as pre-pilot or not

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

John never intended for Dean to think himself less, always think of himself last. He only wanted Dean to watch out for Sammy, to protect him, no matter what.

But Dean—for whatever reason—took all of John's words to heart and decided to take care of everyone else in the world first. He saw to John and Sammy before himself, threw his body between them and danger—against strict orders—and nearly died so many times that John finally stopped counting.

But Sam remembered every one, and hated John for each.

So did John, come to think of it.


	44. the dark heart of a dream

**Title**: the dark heart of a dream

**Disclaimer**: the lovely Winchesters aren't mine. Morgan is, though. The bastard. Just for fun. Title from "Adam Raised A Cain" performed by Bruce Springsteen.

**Warnings**: pedophilia; non-con; pre-pilot

**Pairings**: OMC/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 630

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean was twelve that winter, a couple months away from teenagedom. He still felt guilt for that night in Fort Douglas, still rarely let little Sammy out of his sight.

But Dean was kept after school one afternoon for a detention—as he told John, the dude _totally_ deserved it—so John picked Sam up that day. They went to an ice cream parlor and talked, father and son, about lessons and cartoons and Sam's newest obsession, big cats.

At five, they returned to get Dean. Sam bounced in the back as Dean slid next to him—which struck John as odd, since Dean had been sitting shotgun for the past few weeks.

Dean chattered with Sam on the way home, little nothings that made no sense to adults. He never met John's gaze in the rearview, never looked away from Sam.

When he got out of the car, John noticed that he limped. "Hurt yourself?" he asked.

Dean mutely nodded and followed Sam into the apartment.

o0o

Dean had another detention the following week. John was on a hunt, so Sam went home with a friend.

John didn't see Dean till the next day, but he noticed Dean limping again.

"Stop fighting, Dean," John told him at supper. "We don't need the attention."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered softly, and John knew that would be the end of it.

o0o

Except that it wasn't. Two weeks later, there was a third detention—and Dean limping.

Finally, John understood. He pulled Dean into the master bedroom while Sam watched a cartoon and asked, "Dean, why didn't you tell me?"

Dean replied, "I didn't want you ashamed of me." He wouldn't meet John's eyes.

Rage suffused him, but John kept his temper. "How many times?"

Dean licked his lips. "Four."

John reached out and lifted Dean's head with a gentle finger beneath his chin. "When?"

His firstborn looked away. "One PE class. Three detentions."

"So, it's…" John started. Before acting, he needed the confirmation.

Wouldn't do to kill the wrong man, after all.

"Coach Morgan," Dean said.

John closed his eyes. Dean's favorite teacher at this school—"It's not your fault, Dean. You know that, right?"

He had no idea how to help his son, what to do. They wouldn't stay in the town, for damn sure. Jim would put them up for awhile.

"I know," Dean lied. He seemed so defeated, so lost. So not _Dean_.

John would kill Morgan, the sick fuck. Slowly.

o0o

That night, John made Dean his favorite—Salisbury steak and macaroni—then tucked him into the master bed with Sammy.

"I'll be back by dawn," he promised. "Watch out for each other."

His sons nodded seriously.

o0o

Morgan lived alone in one of the higher class neighborhoods of town.

John broke in easily. The locks were no challenge and the bastard had no dog. It was a two-story house; Morgan slept on the second floor.

He woke as John pulled him out of bed, but John knocked him back under with one blow. Morgan woke again in his basement, handcuffed to a beam. He didn't recognize John.

"I'll give you anything you want," the man blubbered when John brought out the first knife. "Please don't hurt me."

John had no mercy. "You hurt Dean," he said.

Morgan paled even more. When John stepped close with the second knife, Morgan pissed himself.

o0o

John used Morgan's shower before heading home. He left Morgan in the basement and wiped away all evidence but the body.

By the time Dean and Sam got up, John was packed and ready to go.

o0o

After, John only spoke to Dean of it once, to tell him again that it wasn't his fault.

He knew Dean didn't believe him, but he had no idea what else to say.


	45. Words

**Title**: Words

**Disclaimer**: I did not create Johnny, darling Dean, or Sammy-boy. Eric Kripke has that feather in his cap.

**Warnings**: There are spoilers only for the knowledge of Sam leaving his father and brother.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**:

**Wordcount**: 330

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: originally posted under another username

_

* * *

_

Words do not come easily to Dean when it matters.

He can speak to victims and their families, to people with information, to law officials and nurses, to anyone in authority; he can soothe terrified adults and children, can calm worried parents or friends. He could speak for days to a wall, if he so chose, and never truly say anything.

But when it comes to his father or brother, words fail and he doesn't know what to say.

o0o

Sam and Dad argue for years, the only thing they claim to have in common their love for Dean.

But Dean, on the outside of the maelstrom, can see it's their similarities that make them fight, their stubbornness and pride, their belief that they're always right, no matter the proof offered otherwise, and he yells at them both to stop, because it's not helping anyone, it's pointless, and supper is ready, so come fucking _eat_.

But he can never articulate how much it hurts that they can't stand each other. Can never ask them to please just _stop_, because it's killing him, having to choose.

And all the things he never says is the reason Sam finally leaves, after one final fight with Dad. Dean's silence is the door swinging shut behind him, alone with Dad's words echoing in the air.

And Dean thinks a thousand things, but none of them leave his mouth.

o0o

He can speak for days, but not to Dad or Sam. He never says he loves them, that he'd kill for them, die for them, kill himself for them. Never tells them they're all he has, all he wants, all he needs.

In the morning, he wakes to an empty hotel room on another solo hunt—Sam's off, happy and safe, free of the hunt and blood and death. Dad's on the other side of the country, knee-deep in muck and his damnable pride.

And Dean is alone with his thoughts and thing's he'll never, ever say.


	46. Moments in Time and Space

**Title**: Moments in Time and Space

**Disclaimer**: I did not create the boys, their parents, their past and future lovers, or their world. Eric Kripke is the founder of this fandom, my favorite so far.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for the pilot and "Devil's Trap"; definite AU.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 820

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: originally posted under another username.

**_

* * *

_**

This is the end—

The sky is dark above you and the blade flashes silver in the moonlight. His eyes glow golden, the only part that you can see. You remember their normal color, the brilliant green—he speaks, but you don't hear words, only tone.

Derision. Anger. And unholy joy. There is no remnant of your brother. Sammy is nowhere to be seen. Only the thing wearing his skin and a cold, cold dagger.

o0o

This is the beginning—

You and Mommy kiss Sammy goodnight, then Daddy tucks you in. He promises that tomorrow you'll play catch and eat hot dogs, and Mommy will make peanut butter cookies, your favorite. He promises that he'll take you to the zoo, to say hi to the tigers, the bestest kitties in the world.

You fall asleep thinking of teaching Sammy to throw a football and wake to Mommy's scream.

o0o

This is the middle—

Sam glares at Dad, words hanging between them. You stand to the side, eyes going from one to the other, unable to choose.

Sam turns and walks out the door; after a moment, you follow. Dad watches you both go in silence, and you know there is no coming back from this.

o0o

This is the end—

The metal is cold against your cheek and you hear only your brother crying your name. In your memory, he begs forgiveness; that time, you healed. This time, you won't.

You will always forgive him. He has always come first. But he never can forgive himself.

The blade bites into your shoulder, trails down, leaving fire and pain in its wake. You stare at the sky and make no sound. It is not for you that he does this. You are not the true victim here.

This torture is not for you, but instead your baby brother, screaming inside his own head.

o0o

This is the beginning—

You run from the house, Sammy slipping in your grasp. Daddy's yell and the smoke chase you, and tears fill your eyes, because you _know_ Mommy's gone.

There will be no tigers, no cookies, no football, no hugs and no kisses—not for a long while.

You lie to Sammy and tell him everything will be okay, even though you know it won't. Nothing will be okay, never ever, not again.

o0o

This is the middle—

Sam leaves at dawn, leaves with his bags and books, leaves with words screamed and whispered, leaves with words unsaid.

Sam leaves with a promise to never hunt again, an oath uttered in rage and pain, a vow you _know_ he'll break one day.

Sam leaves Dad and he leaves Mom's memory, and in your mind, fire roars.

Sam leaves with your money hidden in one of his books, one last gift you hope he finds in time.

Sam leaves with two knives and one gun, because the training is too hard to shake so soon.

Sam leaves you.

o0o

This is the end—

The murmur is low, a chant you can't make out. You no longer feel pain, only cold. You wonder how much blood you've lost, how much longer you'll live.

Surviving the night was never an option, not after his eyes turned gold.

Your father fought off the possession long enough to save you, long enough for Sam to grab the gun. You'd always wondered how much he loved you, how much he _saw_ you after Mom and the fire.

Enough to defeat the devil, even for a moment.

Sam's fighting, that you know, but not enough.

The dagger is raised high above your face, glinting in the moonlight. Golden eyes shine out of the darkness.

You pick a star at random and smile.

"I forgive you."

o0o

This is the beginning—

"Dean," Mommy tells you while you eat eggs one morning, "You're going to be a big brother."

You take a sip of your milk and swear you'll be the bestest big brother in the world.

Mommy ruffles your hair and kisses your forehead. "I know, baby," she smiles at you. "I know you will."

o0o

This is the middle—

You call Sam every six months but never leave a message. It's enough to let him know you're alive, healthy, and relatively sane.

He's happy, with his normality. He's happy at Stanford, happier than he can remember being, but you have memories of the little boy he used to be, and you _know_.

You know that he isn't happy living a lie. But you know that he'll continue to do so until he can't anymore.

Lies are always found out, you know, and one day the sky will crash around him.

You wish it weren't so.

You keep on calling until you break in and tell him the bad news.

o0o

This is the end—

There is one brief, last flash of pain. Then there is nothing but silence.


	47. Conviction

**Title**: Conviction

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 110

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean has faith in what he sees, what he feels, and what Dad says. Sam has faith in Dean.

Dad says to hunt, so Dean does. He sees that they help people; helping people fills him with contentment. He's happy hunting because they do good,

Sam hunts, at first, because Dean does. He hero-worships his brother, wants to be just like Dean.

So the day he realizes that Dean's only human, Sam's faith is shaken. Dean's faith stays strong until the day Dad vanishes with no warning.

But Sam's faith in Dean's restored, in the months following Jessica's death. And Dean believes in what he sees, what he feels, and Sammy.


	48. Red Dawn

**Title**: Red Dawn

**Disclaimer**: I did not create Dean, Sam, or John, or any part of their world.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for nothing.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 370

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: originally posted under another username

_

* * *

_

**_I don't know if your story ends well. I cannot see the future, only remember the past. _**

o0o

Beauty comes in many forms, and not everyone can always see it, but Sam finds it unfair he's the only one who looks and _sees_ Dean.

Dean finds it unfair that Sam looks and looks and _still_ doesn't see, no matter what he thinks.

John's too busy to notice, not that Dean blames him. Sam's mad enough for them both.

o0o

Other people look at Dean and think _troublemaker, criminal, wrong side of the tracks_. Other people see the beat-up jacket, the faded jeans, the attitude, and the glimmer of danger in his eyes.

Other people don't see what Sam sees, the loyalty and power and gentleness. The love.

o0o

John sees a hunter, a soldier who'd follow him to the ends of the earth. John sees the boy, sometimes, in the man his son has become, but the moments are always fleeting and Dean's too hard, now.

John hasn't seen Mary in over twenty years, but he'd swear that, sometimes, she looks at him out of Dean's eyes.

o0o

"It's killing you," Sam says into the phone, three months after leaving. "To be the one who always stays."

Dean scoffs and replies, "Don't you have to be smart to get into Stanford?"

o0o

Dean has physical beauty in spades, the kind that makes people think about angels and perfection. No one bothers to look beneath the surface and see just how beautiful his soul is, too.

He doesn't mind, though. Really.

o0o

When he was fifteen, Dean went to see a foreteller, a woman in a traveling carnival. She was young, early thirties, with clear blue eyes that stared straight into his mind.

He asked how old he'd be when he died. She studied him for a good five minutes, didn't read tea leaves or his palm or a crystal ball, and finally said, "I don't know. I can't see your future, only glimmers of your past."

Dean nodded and gave her the money, then walked out.

"A red dawn will rise on your beauty," she called as he left and he gave no indication he heard.

o0o

Other people look at Dean and think _danger_.

John looks at Dean and thinks _soldier_.

Sam looks at Dean and thinks _brother_.

Dean looks in the mirror and thinks _so weary._


	49. Stained Glass

**Title**: Stained Glass

**Disclaimer**: I did not create the brothers, their world, or their quest. Mr. Kripke has that to claim, not I.

**Warnings**: There are no real spoilers.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 160

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: originally posted under another username

* * *

The church is always deserted when he goes. Noon on a Thursday—always Thursday—so that no one interrupts, no one asks, no one sees.

He slides into the last pew and stares at the stained glass. It's always the same. Quiet, still—peaceful as the grave.

He never speaks, never prays, never cries. He never laments or rejoices. He merely abides in silence, an hour a week.

He does not feel God. He does not listen, on the off-chance God might speak to him.

The stained glass is beautiful; the church is peaceful. A silent hour to remember.

Always Thursday, always noon. He always strides to the foot of the cross and lays a lily before it. Only then does he speak, three words.

"Miss you, Dean."

An hour a week for reflecting on loss, before it's back to the life he swore he never wanted. It's always a different church, but he feels the same every time he leaves.


	50. Truly, the Lie is Flawless

**Title**: Truly, the Lie is Flawless

**Disclaimer**: I didn't create the boys, their parents, or their world. Eric Kripke and his merry band of blessed loonies have that pleasure.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for nothing, really. Definite AU. Pre-pilot. I do belive I have varied the tenses, but I think it works, so I shan't correct it.

**Pairings**: John/Mary.

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 620

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: originally posted under another ID. Please refrain from accusing me of stealing my own work.

* * *

John asked you once where the scars came from. Twin slashes down your back, about five inches long. Deep and faded, and stretched out with time; pale and never forgotten, despite the years that have passed since that night. He traced them with fingers first, gentle brushes that left you shivering, and then with his tongue, and _that_ left you begging.

"Car wreck," you answered, the lie easily leaving your mouth.

o0o

For years and years, you could pretend, and it was easy, easier than any lie had the right to be. Car accidents were common, expected. Lies became truth if spoken often enough.

You never sang or played any instrument for him, so he had no reason to expect anything.

You loved him and he loved you, and that was all that mattered. Not some half-remembered life you'd left behind with a smile and hidden tears.

o0o

But years and years pass. The scars stretch and fade, nearly vanishing into the smooth skin of your back. You live as Mary Vernon, and then Mary Winchester. You are lover, then wife, then mother—mother of Dean, the most beautiful baby in the world.

The nurses say it, and strangers, and John's family. Only you know just how true it is, and the night after giving birth, your back aches. You curl around your son and smile at your husband and wonder just when the sky will fall around you.

o0o

You sing for Dean, gentle lullabies in the night. Never where John can hear, though. It hurts more than you expected, keeping this from him, but it can't be helped.

The truth is too hard, too long to tell, and the lie still flows easily from your mouth.

o0o

And then the second son, your Sam. Sammy. It was John's idea to name him after the lie you invented of your father, but you agreed because of the prophet.

Perhaps you love irony, or maybe it was a slur directed towards the heavens, but either way, you knew it would all be over soon.

o0o

You sing to Sam, just a little whisper on the night air. Dean sits beside you, hand lightly resting on Sammy's head, staring at his little brother.

When you take them out shopping for groceries or to the park, people call them angels.

Your smile is blinding and Dean always says thank you with a little boy grin. Sammy coos.

o0o

John asked you once where the scars came from. Staring at the being hovering over your Sammy, all the memories cascade in a torrent through your mind.

His eyes glower at you through the darkness, hellfire dancing in their depths.

You are not afraid. He cannot touch Sammy or Dean, not directly; your Lord's promise guarantees that.

**_You still follow him? _**he sneers in your head. **_After he abandoned you? _**

"Yes," you answer aloud, at peace.

**_You are a fool. _**He steps closer and the flames die down, leaving only a gentle green.

"Perhaps." You don't shudder or flinch back as he touches your face, but you know what is to come, so you scream.

There are no other options, and this is the price for the happiness you've received.

First there is pain, then only a burn.

o0o

Mayhap, you were foolish to fall with the rest, but when your Lord cut off your wings so you could playact a human, you'd never been so happy.

John loved you for **you**, not your gifts. After an eternity, finally you were free. And now your sons, too, can taste the sweetness that comes with choice.


	51. I sing for you

**Title**: I sing for you

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season two

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean thinks, sometimes, that in another world he and Victor Henriksen could have been friends. He doubts that he and Gordon Walker would've been, though.

He respects the FBI agent. Henriksen's doing what he thinks is right, trying to bring in a dangerous psychopath. But—a mark in his favor—he'd let Sam go. If Dean turned himself in and said he'd made Sam do everything, Henriksen would set Sam free.

Gordon, though, wants Sam dead, won't stop till Sam's gone. And that is a sin Dean will never forgive.

Before that graveyard, before Jake, before Madison, Sam was not a killer. In Dean's eyes, he still isn't. And Dean'll do anything—_anything_—to keep Sam innocent. If he ever sees Gordon again, he'll prove the bastard right.

_I didn't blink_, Gordon said, about putting down his baby sister. _And neither would you._

Dean will never, ever kill Sam. And he'll kill anyone who tries.


	52. Hunter

**Title**: Hunter

**Disclaimer**: I didn't create Dean, John, Mary, or their world. Kripke—demon/angel—did.

**Warnings**: Pre-pilot, spoilers for nothing.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: inspired by the 'shifter's line in "Skin"--_You think I didn't have dreams of my own?_

**More** **notes**: originally posted under another username

_

* * *

_

He breathes in danger and breathes out life.

Once, he remembers, he dreamed of more, of safety and happiness, of sleep without nightmares and days without blood, of normality and baseball, of _more_.

But dreams are all it was, and dreams pass. Fade. Shift and become something new, something mature.

What he does is important, and it _is_ a choice now. His choice. He _chooses_ to stay hunting, steady on the course. No other path calls to him.

He pays a price, of course, a price of broken bones and constant bruises, a price of blood spilt and tears unwillingly shed. The cost is not a deterrent, though. Anything worth doing hurts, and a price is paid for everything.

This _is_ his choice, now, even if in the beginning it wasn't. The nights of sleeplessness and the days researching, the terror lurking in the dark—never knowing if Dad will come back, or even if he himself will see the next sunrise—

By his own decision, he abides.

He understands what even Dad has forgotten. It is not for vengeance he follows the path of hunting.

It's because he looks into the darkness, sees what's there, and cannot look away.


	53. By His Own Admission

**Title**: By His Own Admission

**Disclaimer**: I did not create the boys or their father or thier mother or Jessica.

**Warnings**: There are spoilers for the pilot.

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 735

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam, despite what he says in anger, does not hate his father. Resents him, sure, doesn't understand him at all, but **hate**?

That's a harsh word. He knows he's never felt it.

But resentment is enough to plant a tiny little bulb, a shoot of anger that courses through him every time another dream is dashed for Dad's vendetta.

o0o

But Sam is even more bullheaded than his father. He clings to his hopes, purely out of spite. Dad slams through his plans for school, so he just builds more. He goes out for soccer and he attends meetings for various groups, and he aces every test he takes.

Dean shakes his head in the kitchen, preparing jambalaya, one of their years in Louisiana. "He's not gonna let you, Sammy," he says.

Sam looks up from his script—the third play he's tried out for and made—and chuckles. "I know."

Dean glances over, meets Sam's eyes. "Then why do you keep doing this? You're poking a grizzly with a stick, Sam, and you just keep at it. Why do you always push him?"

Sam looks away, back down at the table. "Because… if I never try… if I never spread my wings—I'm not **like** you, Dean. I can't make him happy in the hunt, because I'll never measure up to you."

The spoon clatters on the stove and Dean strides over, raises Sam's chin with a gentle hand. "It's not a competition, Sam," he says firmly, softly. "It's **never** been a competition."

"Maybe not to you," Sam replies. "But for Dad, that's all it's been."

o0o

Sam cannot hate his father. He knows the man loves him, knows the man would die and kill for him. He knows Dad did the best he could, the best he knew how.

But in some cases, the best is not good enough. John never offered what Sam needed, only what he thought his son required. And perhaps for Dean, it was enough.

Sam doesn't think he should be blamed for wanting more.

When he walked away, he never meant to stay gone. He wanted to be able to visit on holidays, during the summer. But Dad—in his anger and pride, Dad told him to never come back.

Sam doesn't know, will never learn, that John cried that night and begged Mary's forgiveness. Come morning, though, he stood by his words.

o0o

John always told Sam to try harder, to run faster, to dodge quicker. To equal Dean, even though they all three knew he couldn't.

And Sam did, for the longest time, until he decided he wanted different rewards.

Dad's conditional respect was not enough for him. Dad's words were not enough, nor his proud smiles.

Dean could live off it, could even beg for it, but Sam… he just **couldn't**. He didn't think he should have to.

And Dad would be so angry, so disbelieving… and maybe even a little hurt, but Sam just couldn't care anymore.

o0o

So Sam packed his bags and left, planning on happiness and safety and normalcy. No matter what he screamed or thought in that final fight, he could not hate.

Dean's eyes as Dad and Sam nearly came to blows whispered of pain and fear, and of pride. He didn't speak, didn't get between them like every time before.

Sam knows he'll never ask forgiveness for everything he said, just like he knows his dad won't. Neither of them will grovel; neither will speak first.

And like always… they're not the ones who hurt the most. It's not fair, never can be—but Sam is **not** a hunter and doesn't want to be.

And he **shouldn't** be punished for that.

o0o

But Jessica never asked to be killed. Sam turned his back on the darkness, but the dark never turned its back on him, and now she's dead and Dad's missing and Sam's right back where he started.

With a gun in one hand, a knife in the other, a crusade stretching in front of him, anger humming in his blood, and his brother standing at his side.

He **shouldn't** be punished for wanting more, but he was. He walked away, thought he had a choice.

He could never hate his father, and doubts he'll ever fully understand him. But he does—he thinks maybe he understands a little more now.


	54. Snapshot

**Title**: Snapshot

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: pre-series; slight AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 570

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Poopyhead."

Dean turned, mouth opened in shock. He sat on the couch, flipping through a magazine, and glanced up to see Sam, ridiculous in pj's too big and holding an old stuffed dog, with his dark, too-long hair flopping into his eyes. "_What_ did you call me?" Dean asked, too stunned to even be offended.

His little brother stepped forward defiantly, clutching the dog close. "Poopyhead," he growled again, trying to imitate their dad as he challenged monsters. "You're a big, mean, old _poopyhead_!"

Dean raised an eyebrow and slipped off the couch, moving toward Sam, who instinctively backed up. He could barely keep the grin from his face; of all the things to call him, all the bad words both of them knew—Sam picked _poopyhead_? "What'd I do this time, Sammy?" Dean queried, keeping the mean look on his face.

"You ate the last of the macaroni!" Sam yelled, his anger at the offense overcoming his fear of Dean's retribution. "You didn't leave any for me!"

Dean turned his laughter into scoffing. "You baby," he sneered, moving back to the couch, rolling his eyes and picking up his magazine. At ten, he was _decades_ ahead of little six-year-old Sammy.

He never saw the shoe coming and it hit him in the head. He threw the magazine down and lunged for Sam, an incoherent yell filling the room around them. It wasn't even that the shoe hurt, because it didn't; he needed to maintain his no-nonsense big brother image.

Dean wouldn't hurt Sam, of course, just teach him a lesson.

The dog was shoved aside as they tussled, Dean doing his best to keep from wounding his baby brother, but Sam felt no inclination, and fought tooth and nail. Dean pinned him quickly of course; four years gave a lot of advantages. "What do you say?" he whispered menacingly in Sam's ear.

"Get off," Sam replied, trying to match Dean's tone and failing. He squirmed and wiggled, attempting to loosen Dean's hold; that venture failed, too.

Dean tightened his grip. "Say it, Sammy," he continued softly, but this time in a wheedling voice, "and I'll make you more macaroni."

"But Dad doesn't let you use the stove," Sam said, shocked into pausing his movement.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Dean answered, purposely ignoring that things people didn't know killed them all the time. Sam didn't need to hear about that, not yet.

Dean's innocence may have shattered years before, but he could let Sammy keep his still.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam gave in. "You're the best brother in the whole world." Dean let him go and stood, pulling Sam to his feet.

"I thought you were done eating," Dean said, picking up the dog and handing it to Sam. "You didn't tell me to save some for you." He led the way into the kitchen, Sam padding behind him.

"Oh," Sam muttered, guilt flooding him. "Sorry."

Dean grinned at him, grabbing the pot to wash it so he could make more. "'s'alright, Sammy." He placed the pot in the sink after shuffling some dishes around; once Sam was finished eating, it was time for another load. "But where did you hear the word _poopyhead_?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who answered, proud and ashamed at the sametime, "I made it up."

Dean looked back the pot and turned the water on, hiding his grin from Sam.


	55. Perfect World

**Title**: Perfect World

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 365

**Point of view**: third

* * *

In a perfect world, there is no pain. Dean knows that. Dean also knows he couldn't stand to live in such a place because pain is all he has.

o0o

In a perfect world—_the_ perfect world—Momma didn't die, and they all lived happily ever after. Momma and Daddy grew old together and died in each other's arms, slipping away in the night.

Sammy went off to college with everyone's blessing and met a beautiful blonde named Jessica. They got married two years later with the whole family present and had three kids: William, Mary, and Deanna.

And in this perfect world, Dean felt out of place. He wandered the country, checking in every now and then. He showed up for Sam's wedding and each of the births.

Momma always gave him a special smile and kissed his cheek and whispered, "You'll forever have a home with me, you know that, right?" He nodded and kissed her forehead and vanished back down the road.

o0o

If given a choice between herself and her son, Mary would forever pick her baby to live. And she was given the choice.

And she made it.

And Dean lived.

o0o

Sam never knew that the maybes he saw could never equal the maybe his mother kept from coming to pass. Sam never knew that another world existed, a world where Dean died that night, where Dean was stolen and changed and twisted and turned—a world his mother kept from coming to pass with her blood and flames.

Sam never knew and Mary's glad because she can't escape the knowledge.

o0o

Dean lived. Not unscathed and not without loss, but he lived.

o0o

In a perfect world, there is no pain. Dean knows that. Dean also knows he couldn't stand to live in such a place because pain is all he has.

o0o

And eventually they caught up with the thing that killed Momma. And they killed it, destroyed it, erased it from existence instead of sending it back to Hell.

John collapsed after it was done and with a smile he died.

And Dean cried.

And Sam walked away without looking back.

o0o

There is no such thing as a perfect world.


	56. Empathy

**Title**: Empathy

**Disclaimer**: I did not create Johnny, dear Mary, darling Dean, or Sammy-boy. Eric Kripke has that feather in his cap.

**Warnings**: There are spoilers only for the first few minutes of the pilot and the knowledge of Sam leaving his father and brother.

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 390

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: orginally posted under another username

_

* * *

_

The first year after Mary died, John could barely function. He held Dean and Sammy, tried to keep his mind blank, tried to keep the pain at bay. He cried only after Dean and Sammy had fallen asleep; it wouldn't do to worry them, not when they picked up his smallest emotion.

He vaguely wondered if every child had such sensitivity or if his boys were special. He sometimes thought it was their gifts that led Mary's killer to the nursery, that cost Mary her life—but he never entertained those thoughts for long.

Dean and Sam were her sons, no matter what. All he had left of her. Dean with his solemn hazel eyes, protecting and looking after Sam, Mary still alive only in his infrequent laughter. And Sam was the only thing to ever make Dean laugh.

As they grew, Sam was no longer in-tune to John's emotions. Dean, though, could read them both and used it to keep them from fighting whenever possible. The older Sam became, the less it worked. But Sam, despite his blindness to John, could still clearly feel Dean.

And John wondered sometimes—only sometimes, generally, only around November 2—if his boys—Mary's sons, through and through—were the reason she died.

Sam left and John breathed a sigh of relief. It may have nearly killed Dean, but John knew it was for the best.

Often, he wished Dean was still small enough to hug his pain away, to kiss him and make everything better. Any time those thoughts crossed his mind, Dean would smile at him, ask about his day—even if they'd spent all or most of it together--, and muse with him about his thoughts on life.

It was Dean's way of letting him know his firstborn was alright, forgave him, and that he'd be fine.

It was Dean's way of saying _I love you._

John saw Mary in Dean's gentle gaze and could only smile back.

**_It wasn't your fault_**, he thought late at night, Dean softly snoring in the other bed. **_You're too good, better than I ever was. But Sam…_** The laughing, smiling baby of November 2 flashed through his mind.

"Sleep, Dad," Dean murmured. "Long day tomorrow."

John turned over and stared at the ceiling. After he closed his eyes, he still saw her.


	57. andesite

**Title**: andesite

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season two; AU

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

John isn't sure when he realized the truth. He's fairly certain he didn't wake up one day knowing, but that's all.

His beloved Mary wasn't quite human. She was part something else, part Other. But he doesn't know part what, and that not-knowing is killing him.

o0o

Looking back, he discovers that he's suspected for a long time. That he knew she wasn't fully right from almost the beginning.

But she was so funny, so kind, so beautiful—he just didn't care.

And Sam is his mother's son, with abilities beyond a human's.

But so is Dean. And that's something Mary's killer doesn't seem to comprehend.

o0o

It offers John hope, the demon's blindspot when it comes to Dean—the bastard won't be prepared when the final sun dawns. The demon won't be ready when It goes after Sam, and John's spent a lifetime conditioning Dean.

o0o

He loves Mary. And he loves his sons. He knows Sam thinks he only ever saw them as soldiers, but that's not true. They're his boys, Dean and Sam, his babies.

But they're also more than that. They're the final defense in a war they didn't know they were fighting until almost the end.

And for that, John regrets.

o0o

Mary… even on the last day of his life, John doesn't know what she was.

But it doesn't matter. He loves her. Always has.

He knows the truth about Sam, about the demon's plans. But he also knows something that the demon doesn't—Dean won't give up. Ever. He won't let Sam go.

John's saving more than Dean when he trades himself and a gun—he's saving Sam, too.

And by saving Mary's boys, he's saving the world.


	58. Scars

**Title**: Scars

**Disclaimer**: I didn't create Dean, John, or Sam. Kripke—demon/angel—did.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He keeps in his heart scars that never show on his body, memories of mistakes and blows, cuts so deep they went right through his skin to his soul. He's a master of covering pain with a quick, bright smile, with laughter that fools all who think to look. 

Not that many do. He's glad Dad chose the hunt instead of beer, because he knows he's one of those that'd fallen through the cracks otherwise.

If his own brother and father can't be bothered to look, why would anyone else? It'd hurt if he noticed anymore.

But he just keeps on walking, doing everything asked, and it gets easier everyday.

Broken hearts heal eventually, anyway.


	59. warrior

**Title**: warrior

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 120

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He blankets himself in denial and bends beneath the breeze, molding himself to the situations presented him. He is a soldier and a killer, a hero and a warrior. He is a hunter, trained in death and blood and fire.

He is chased by demons and humans, by authorities and civilians, by memory and regret. He is the hope and the despair—to some, he is the villain.

He fights because he has nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, no one else to be. He fights because it is all he knows, all he is.

But more—he fights because the darkness exists, and so long as one person stands against it, it will not win.


	60. lightning from a clear sky

**Title**: lightning from a clear sky

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU after "Scarecrow"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 815

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean discovered his ability completely by accident, and it wasn't something he'd have ever thought could come in handy.

Sam had a vision-induced migraine and they were shagging ass three states west, hoping to actually make it in time to save the poor bastard. The music was off, Sam whimpering and curled up as much as his Sasquatch body would let him.

It was a bright, shiny day, the kind Sammy usually enjoyed the hell out of, but today it just added to his pain.

Dean wished that it wasn't so bright and clouds moved across the sun, blocking it all the way to their destination.

He thought nothing of it, that first time.

o0o

Three weeks later and Dean had a headache. He'd been tossed into a wall by an angry spirit, hitting his skull and blacking out for a minute. His head hurt for two days, nonstop, but they had to move on before the authorities caught wind of them.

The sky was clear, the sun beaming down—and a sharp, constant ache in his head made him want to die.

_Please, stop being so bright_, he begged the world, and clouds covered the sun.

He was too far out of it to catch on, then, but third time's the charm.

o0o

It was dark and overcast; looked like dusk, but it was barely noon. They were hunting a special breed of revenant that feared sunlight, but the persistent storms had been letting it out at all hours of the day.

It headed straight for Sam; Dean's gun jammed and he yelled in frustration, "Some sunlight would be good right now!"

The clouds parted and the revenant shrieked as it disintegrated.

Dean and Sam stared at each other. "Wow," Dean chuckled. "Lucky."

But he'd begun to suspect, and he bet that Sam was starting to catch on.

o0o

So he practiced. He'd look at the sky when it was clear and, feeling stupid, asked, "Clouds, please?"

And clouds covered the sun.

Or vice versa: he'd clear the sky when it was overcast.

He never brought this talent up with Sam, and few weeks after the revenant incident, Sam started the discussion.

"Dean," he said, "we need to talk about it."

"No," Dean responded, hating to disappoint. "We really don't."

Sam gave him the stubborn-little-brother look, but Dean held firm: there was nothing to discuss. So he had some freaky weather mojo—not important. Not like Sam's ability.

But Sam kept bringing it up, determined to not let sleeping tigers lie. Dean finally said, "So what if I can affect the weather, Sammy? Nothing's changed."

And Sam gave him another look. "Don't you get it, Dean? Everything's changed."

o0o

It took lightning striking hunters after Sam for Dean to finally realize Sam was right.

A stupid sum'bitch aimed his gun at Sam and began spouting off about unnatural freaks who needed to die for the good of the world.

Another hunter held a knife to Dean's throat and his wrists were tied, but he still kept struggling, beyond panic and all the way into terror.

Sam's gaze hadn't left Dean. The hunter kicked Dean's feet out from under him and he fell hard.

"This is necessary," the hunter said, voice calm. "You'll see."

The bastard by Sam cocked his gun. That sound penetrated Dean's haze and he remembered the wildcard he held.

Out of a clear sky, lightning flashed. The hunter dropped his gun and fell over, dead. Sam threw himself to the side as the second man pulled out his own piece, but another bolt struck him.

Across the field, the brothers stared at each other. Sam moved first, racing to Dean and helping him up.

"Okay," Dean admitted once he was steady, "maybe it's useful."

His heart still raced and for days that feeling didn't leave him—the sheer terror of being sure Sammy would die.

o0o

Three weeks after killing the two hunters, and a yellow-eyed man appeared in his dream.

"Somehow I missed you," the man told Dean. "Looked at you when you were six months old and found you wanting."

"You're the demon," he realized. "The one that killed Mom and Jessica."

The man nodded. "Sammy's my special boy," he said. "My favorite. But you…" He studied Dean in silence for a minute. "I should kill you. But that, I think, would be counter-productive. Sammy wouldn't appreciate it."

Dean straightened, anger spurring him. "Leave my brother alone."

"You get that spark from your mother," the man purred, stepping close. "Sam's been my son just as long as he's been your brother. Which of us has a greater claim?"

Far away in the dreamscape, thunder rumbled. The man smiled. "You'll be fun," he decided, and Dean woke up.

o0o

Outside the motel room, a storm raged. Dean, lying awake in bed, made a decision of his own. _Fine_, he thought, listening to the rain. _It's war_.


	61. Rest your head close to my heart

**Title**: Rest your head close to my heart

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Baby Mine," which I neither wrote nor own.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Parings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 270

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Four months after the fire, John wakes to Dean screaming "Mama!" It's the first word Dean has said since that night, and the pain is sharp in John's gut. John rushes to Dean, who's curled around Sam and sobbing, whimpering "Mama" over and over and over again.

John scoops Dean up and cradles him, trying to soothe him. Dean wraps his arms around John's neck, trying to burrow beneath his skin. "Mama" is replaced with "Daddy" and John steels himself against tears. Dean does not need to see his father break down. Dean needs him strong.

"It'll be alright, baby," John says, holding onto Dean gently, rubbing circles on his back. "It's alright."

Dean's five, now. Been five for over two months, and Mary wasn't there. Won't be there when Sammy turns a year old.

John closes his eyes, clutching Dean, burying his face in Dean's too-long hair. He doesn't remember Dean being this small, this fragile, before the fire.

Dean quiets, settling against John, grip loosening. John shifts to hold him with one arm and gently picks up Sam. He carries them back to his bed and settles Dean, then slides next to him, still holding Sammy on his chest.

It's Mary looking at him when John meets Dean's eyes. "Go to sleep, baby," John tells him. "We'll get ice cream tomorrow."

Dean doesn't smile. He hasn't since the fire. John misses Dean's grin fiercely. He wonders if he'll ever see it again.

Sam snuffles and Dean reaches up to touch his back, then leaves his hand there. John lays awake for a long time, just holding Sammy, watching Dean.


	62. abiego

**Title**: abiego

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: futurefic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 175

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: the title should translate to _send off_.

* * *

_His body broke, shattered apart. He felt the burn as his tendons and muscles tore, as his bones ripped, as everything ended—_

o0o

It happened in Montana, that one time Dean was too slow. It happened too quick for Sam to do damn a thing about it, for him to yell a warning, for—

It happened too quick, and just like that, Dean's gone.

o0o

Sam didn't move for three days, staying beside Dean's body. He didn't notice the freezing rain or the pressure in his bladder or the blood(not his blood, not his blood, Dean, _Dean_) that painted his skin red.

He didn't notice anything but that Dean wasn't breathing, wasn't moving, was getting cold and starting to smell—

o0o

They found him there and they pulled him away from Dean, and he couldn't speak, couldn't scream, could barely take a breath.

The world was so cold, so quiet, and Dean wasn't—

Dean _wasn't_. Anymore.

o0o

_—and there was time for one thought, half a thought, a whisper that never left his throat. _

_And then there was fire. _


	63. Until an hour

**Title**: Until an hour

**Disclaimer**: the hunter isn't mine. Or his brother. Title from Arthur Miller.

**Warnings**: futurefic

**Pairings**: non-incestuous het

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 440

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She says her name is Diamond and her eyes are vibrant blue, her hair long and wavy black. He knows what she is, what she's done, but he's so weary. He doesn't want to hunt tonight, just wants to be a man at a nightclub.

She smiles at him, entices him, asks him if he wants to dance. She pulls him to the floor and leans against him, asks his name. He says "Jonathan" and she calls him Jonny.

The name doesn't hurt like he'd once thought it would. The memories don't burn. He loses himself in Diamond, in the feel of her body against his.

"Tell me a secret," she whispers in his ear, twisting her fingers in his too-short hair.

He smiles and lowers his head to murmur, "I killed a man three nights ago."

Diamond laughs. "Me, too."

o0o

She pulls him towards the bathroom and backs him into the wall, runs her hands across his chest. "Jonny," she breathes.

He pushes her away. "'m'not in the mood to die tonight," he says, and her eyes widen. For just a minute, her mask slips.

"Hunter." Her voice is cold. He can hear the fear buried deep.

He kisses her quickly, biting her lip. "You have until tomorrow to get out of town," he mutters into her mouth.

She nods, eyes wary. Her gaze trails to the golden charm hanging around his neck, reaches out to touch it.

He grabs her wrist. "Don't."

She pulls away, slowly, carefully. "I'll be gone by sunup."

He watches her walk away, watches her slip through the crowd. He figures she thinks she knows who he is. She's wrong.

He'll track her. Not tonight, though. Tonight he just wants to feel human again.

Human. That's a laugh. He clutches the charm, relishing the slight burn as the edges dig into his skin. He lets it fall and moves back to the main room, letting the beat thrum through him.

His brother would love this place.

Another girl—normal, this time—meanders her way to him. She's beautiful—dark blonde hair, huge hazel eyes—and young, funny and smart, and the top of her head only reaches midway up his chest. He lets her set their speed, not surprised when it's fast.

They fuck at her apartment, in her bed. He holds her after, kisses her gently, and lying skin to skin, he _feels_ again. Not whole—never whole. But slightly pieced back together.

So when he leaves to hunt, he blesses her home. "Be safe, Deanna," he says, kissing two of his fingertips and pressing them to the doorjamb.

Then he's gone.


	64. to believe it done

**Title**: to believe it done

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "The Magnificent Seven"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point of view**: third

* * *

The Demon is dead, but Sam doesn't feel free. There's still a pressure in his chest, a weight—Mom knew her killer, and darkness is swirling inside him. Whatever plans It had are still unfolding.

And Dean brought him back. Dean fucked with the natural order, and he isn't the least regretful. Sam can't even fault him for it—would he have done any different?

Dean's acting like he hasn't a care in the world, like he's free now the Demon's dead. But Sam knows better. Some part of It is in him, and It's getting bigger all the time.

What happens after Dean's debt comes due? When Dean's gone, Sam won't have any reason to fight anymore.

Dean laughs, a lightness in the sound Sam's never heard before. Sam can't cheapen his sacrifice by telling the truth. Dean thinks they finally won, after twenty-five years of fighting. And Sam won't ruin that for him.

o0o

_The boy-king_, Pride calls him. _Open season_, Pride says. _Prodigy_, Pride sneers.

Sam doesn't fight, hoping if he dies, Dean'll be free. But that blonde bitch, whoever she is, steps in with a knife that kills demons—like the Colt.

He knows Dean'll try to bring him back again, but if he uses that knife, there won't be anything left. (He hopes. God, he hopes so very hard.)

_The boy-king. My favorite._

As long as he lives, Sam knows, the world isn't safe. And if he outlives Dean, he'll have no reason. So, there's only one thing to do.

He can't survive Dean. And he can't let Dean bring him back again.

He needs that knife, and he needs it soon. And he doesn't dare let on to Dean.

Dean thinks they won. Sam knows better, though, because the Demon is in him, and growing.


	65. a quiet field where honor lies

**Title**: a quiet field where honor lies

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Brother, My Brother"

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Wordcount**: 200

**Rating**: PG

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean dies in the summer, and it's a beautiful day, with a clear sky far as the eye can see. It's a quick death, too, much easier and gentler than any Winchester had dreamed of since that November night of fire.

Dean dies in the summer, alone in the middle of a field far from any civilization, mountains in the north and a desert to the south, but he's in a place as close to Paradise as the world's come since the Garden.

Dean dies in the summer, and it's an easy death, if lonely, as his heart gives out, finally too tired to beat anymore.

Dean dies in the summer, glad to be going at last, so weary of what the world has become. He's relieved, staring up at the endless sky.

Dean dies in the summer, and Sam's off being king of the shadows, ruling his empire and commanding his army, and he doesn't feel that Dean's gone till it's too late to do a thing. His rage is a towering inferno, another city crumbling to dust at his feet.

Dean dies in the summer, and it's the last of those seasons that the world will ever see.


	66. bore his name with pride

**Title**: bore his name with pride

**Disclaimer**: Sammy, Johnny, and Dean aren't mine. Just for fun. Title from "Tell My Father"

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sometimes, over the years, far more frequently as time went on, Dean _had_ thought about leaving. It wasn't like Sam had the market cornered on dreaming—Dean used to fantasize about what he'd do, once he left the hunt.

Baseball player. Mad scientist. Horror novelist. Rock star.

Fireman. He always went back to that one.

But Dad needed someone to take care of Sammy, and then watch his back. Dean's hopes for the future paled in comparison to keeping his family together.

Not that his family seemed to particularly _care_ about staying together, but Dean always knew it was the thought that counted. As long as someone tried, there was a chance. Slim and fading more by the second, but still a chance.

So, yeah, he dreamed. Fantasized. Hoped. Then Sam left, not content with half-thought plans, which was all Dean had ever allowed himself, and Dean couldn't walk out on Dad. Couldn't leave him alone. It would feel too much like betrayal.

He stopped torturing himself with daydreams after that. There was nothing but the hunt, nothing but watching Dad's back and checking on Sam.

Dean left the dreaming to Sammy. He'd always dreamt well enough for them both.


	67. jagged edges of the truth

**Title**: jagged edges of the truth

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Quote from "Devil's Trap"

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Devil's Trap"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 145

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_They don't need you. Not like you need them._

o0o

The worst thing about being told the truth is that you can't deny it. Not really. You can say the words and fill the world with them—but, deep down, you know. You _know_. And the thing that's told you the truth knows, too.

Dean's been told an awful lot of shit in his life and he can call things what they are.

What that demon told him with Dad's voice and Dad's eyes and Dad's _dadness_—was the truth. The bare, naked, goddamned _truth_.

And Dean can lie till the end of the world, but he _always_ knows the truth.

He knows. He knew it before the demon said it, before Sam left, before Dad looked at him and saw only a soldier in a crusade, and not his firstborn son.

He's always known it.


	68. some to misery are born

**Title**: some to misery are born

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from William Blake.

**Warnings**: um… abstract? Highly symbolic.

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He holds the world in the palm of his hand. There is fire in the east, ocean to the west, mountains in the north, deserts to the south. Wind howls in all four corners, shrieking and screaming. Pained voices, weary and primeval, join the discordant chorus, begging for mercy.

He holds the world in the palm of his left hand, an ebon dagger gripped with his right, and he has none. Red liquid drips from the blade, the stench of blood, cloying and dried, in the air.

_Please, don't do this, _the pretty girl begs. If the distraught matron still had her tongue, she'd join in. _It won't fix anything, and you know it!_

The wise crone says nothing. She knows. She's always known, and never did a thing.

_Maybe not, _he says, staring at the world. It's not so much, not so big, when it all comes down to it. _But I don't care._ He looks at her, at her pale blonde hair, at her large doe eyes. _I'm miserable, _he tells her. _So the world can suffer with me._

His brother died yesterday. Always yesterday, no matter how many tomorrows the calendar turns.

o0o

… and the world falls.


	69. finale

**Title**: finale

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU before season four

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: first

* * *

It's over, Dean. Don't fight anymore—don't. It won't… it won't fix this, you know? There _is_ no way to fix it. I… damn it, man. I chose this, okay? So don't—don't blame yourself. Don't you dare. I _chose_ this.

I know you won't understand. Can't. You think… you think everyone's more important than you. Better than you. And you're wrong, so _wrong_. You… shit. This is harder than I was expecting.

This has to be the biggest chick flick ever, huh, Dean? Man.

You… you're everything, alright, Dean? _Everything_. You… you're the heart and soul of our family. What's left of it. You're the one thing that kept me and Dad going all those years… the one reason I have to fight anymore.

I _had_ to do it, Dean. You… you don't deserve Hell. I know you think you do—I know you never expected to go anywhere else. But you… damn it, Dean, you're the best person I've _ever known_, and I cannot let you burn forever. I just can't.

You'll never forgive me, I know. And I… I'm okay with that.

After everything you've done for me, please understand—I _had_ to do it.

It's over.


	70. burning

**Title**: burning

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He burned his brother today.

Watched the ashes float away.

Didn't cry—couldn't. There was no sorrow, no despair.

There was only rage.

Anger fills him now, deep and abiding, pushing its way into his most hidden places. He is brimming with it.

He wants to lash out.

o0o

He burned his brother today. Built the pyre and lit the flame.

He burned his brother, watched his last link with humanity drift into the sky.

He's empty, now. Alone.

Enraged.

o0o

He burned his brother today. Everything that mattered—smoke in the wind. Everything that mattered—gone like it'd never been.

_Goodbye. _


	71. glory of the stars

**Title**: glory of the stars

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Theodore Chickering Williams.

**Warnings**: AU for "Red Sky At Morning"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 170

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written before the ep aired based off the promo, just not typed up

* * *

She comes to them for help, raving about a ghost ship and certain death.

Sam listens with an earnest face and wants to aid her, protect her—Dean, however, is less forgiving. _(So sure you yourself came back right, boy?)_

After she finishes, tears pooling in her eyes, Dean asks, "Why?"

Bella looks from him to Sam and back. "Why what?"

Dean feels no guilt as he says, "Why should we help you?"

Sam doesn't meet Bella's gaze, just stares at the ground.

"Because—" Her eyes are wide and frantic. "Because it's what you do! You help people!"

Dean knows his grin is vicious and doesn't care. _(What's dead should stay dead.) _"You aren't people, Bella," he tells her. "You hurt Sam. You're lucky I don't kill you on principle." He cocks his head. "Or unlucky, if you saw the ship like you say."

He glances at Sam. "Let's go."

Sam follows him out, flinching when Bella wails. Dean feels nothing.

"Dean," Sam tries.

He answers, "No, Sammy. Let's hunt."


	72. most solemn oath

**Title**: most solemn oath

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Playthings"; AU?

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 230

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Don't ask that of me._

Sam can't know how much it cost Dean to tell him what Dad said before he left Dean alone in that barren hospital room.

_You'll have to kill him, son, if you can't save him,_ Dad whispered, the words shot through with sorrow. _I have to go away now, and I need to be able to trust you'll see it done._

Dean had no words, too shocked and frightened, and Dad continued, voice softening with every syllable_. It's in his blood, Dean. He won't be able to run from it. He'll have to embrace it or be torn apart—and it might… it might change him. If he becomes someone you don't recognize… you'll have to kill him, Dean. To save the world, you'll have to kill Sammy._

And Dad walked away. Left Dean with a sad, sorry smile, left Dean lost and reeling. Left Dean with questions, with dread and horror pooling in his belly.

Dean told Sam some of the truth, but couldn't bring himself to utter all of it.

And now Sam echoes Dad—_kill me if I become someone else. Promise me you will._

Dean didn't tell Dad he'd do it. He knows he can't.

And Sam begs Dean to follow Dad's will, like he's always looked down on Dean for doing.

_I promise, _Dean says, but he doesn't specify what.


	73. huts of history's shame

**Title**: huts of history's shame

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Maya Angelou.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Sin City"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third  
**Dedication**: _H._ for reading over this.

* * *

As the days and weeks pass, Dean comes to understand exactly why that demon said she—_it_—was ready to follow Sam.

o0o

There's blood staining Dean's hands, his heart and his soul, his nightmares. Rivers of blood flow in his dreamscape, the cloying stench rising to the sky. The sun never attains high noon, always lurking on the far side, near the ground.

He's alone with the shades of people he's killed, Dad numbering among them, though Dean knows Dad moved on, to Heaven.

He hopes. He hopes so hard.

o0o

Demons have faith. Some of them. That little chat in the basement has skewed his perspective. He actually told Sam to wait before pulling the trigger on Casey—no, _NotCasey_. He began to feel for a _rapist_, and shudders at the thought.

o0o

He didn't hesitate with that guy in the alley, or that guy in the house, or that woman cowering in the corner, begging for her life.

And now Sam—_Sammy_, bouncing baby brother, little boy he remembers with love and adoration—has a body count, too. And it's getting higher all the time.

o0o

A demon told him about Hell's god, Lucifer, the most beautiful angel who plunged from Heaven instead of taking second place.

A demon told him that it would have followed Sam with pleasure, with glee, with _loyalty_, that he was being groomed to lead Hell's army.

Demons lie.

But… they also tell the truth.

o0o

Blood rushes across his palm, bathing his fingers; it drips, one teardrop by one teardrop, warm and thick.

It's not his blood, and he wakes gasping, Sam in the other bed with a soft, "'y'alright?"

"Fine," he says, lying through his teeth, because a demon would have willingly—_gladly_—followed his brother's word as law.

o0o

Demons lie—except when they don't.


	74. all souls pass

**Title**: all souls pass

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Into the West"

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point of view**: third

* * *

John thinks sometimes, and hates himself for it, that life would have been so much easier if Sam died with Mary.

He knows that sentiment shows itself every now and again in his dealings with Sam, in the impatience and anger; Sam doesn't understand, and he's too much like his father. He strikes back just as hard and just as fast, leaving Dean to pick up the pieces.

Dean. He is his mother's son, caring and compassionate, with the patience of a mountain when it comes to his family. He loves John, and he loves Sam—and he'll be there, at the end, come what may.

He'll be there, when Sam turns. John wishes he didn't know, but he can't forget. It's happening, steadily, Sam darkening more by the day. He can't help it, and it's not his fault; none of them asked for this, not John or Mary, and certainly not Sammy.

But there's nothing for it. If Sam lives, the world dies. He'll lead the army, then rule the Earth, an absolute monarch, Hell's chosen boy. And if John knows, it won't be long before the rest of the hunters learn.

Hell's losing patience.

If Sam lives… but John can't kill him. He loves his baby boy too much, the boy Mary died to save.

John can't kill him, but someone has to. Before it's too late, before he's too far gone, too far out of reach.

Hunters would line up for the chance, if they knew what was coming, what Sam will create. But John can't do that. Refuses.

And then there is no more time, Dean on the brink and Sam's furypain lashing at the world. John can feel it building, more by the moment as Dean lies there, unconscious and dying.

Dean—Mary's firstborn, Mary's light still shining in a darkened, hollow world.

John understands in a sudden flash. If Sam keeps Dean, maybe… maybe he won't turn, won't become what Hell, what Mary's killer wants. Hell can't touch him directly, can't destroy him—John's learned that, and he doesn't know why.

Dean must live. He may be the final, last hope. But he has to know.

It hurts John to do it, but he tells Dean the truth. Everything. The horror in Dean's eyes cuts at him, and he tries smiling, tries lending Dean strength. He'll need it for the days ahead.

Dean'll live. He'll live for Sam. Do everything he can for his little brother. It's all John's taught him to do. And he's always done it gladly. Willingly. Without complaining, without asking why.

John never did a thing worth being gifted with Mary or Dean, and he loves them both so much—and Sam. Sam.

He goes to meet Mary's killer with a lightened heart, because he's leaving Dean behind, healed and whole, healthy and informed.

John doesn't think for a moment Dean could kill Sam, or would, even if the world hung in the balance.

But Dean will live. That's enough.


	75. point

**Title**: point

**Disclaimer**: not my character; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "All Hell Breaks Loose"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

At what point is he too far gone to save? When he stabs that man in Wal-mart, when he snaps that woman's neck at the park, when he laughs as that school bus goes over the edge?

Is **that** when it's finally too late?

o0o

Or was it too late earlier, when blood pooled on his tongue, dark blood, bad blood, demon blood—blood of fire and wind, blood of death and despair?

Was it too late when he was born, conceived?

Was it always too late?

o0o

_Oh, yes, from the beginning he was lost… gorgeously, gloriously lost in the flames. _


	76. And that is dying

**Title**: And that is dying

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Henry Van Dyke.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: written for sammessiah, to the prompt _The end of the big battle; Heaven's won. Which side is Dean on?_

* * *

_I offer you a choice._ The thundering voice is kind. _Stay here forever… or leave and never return._

Your soul aches. You are so tired. To stay is to have peace…

_Where is he?_ you ask. You cannot be content if you do not know—you've spent a lifetime—eternity—concerned with him. You can't turn your back now.

There is a pause in everything; time stops. _He is gone_, the voice finally says, and time resumes.

Gone? The word must be wrong. _Gone where?_ You beat back panic; it is a simple misunderstanding, nothing more.

The voice answers softly, _Into oblivion._

You can choose Heaven or the Earth—the war is over and there is no Hell anymore. But he is not there. He is not anywhere.

To choose Heaven is to have peace; to choose Earth is to have life.

But neither is Sam.

_Send me to him_, you say.

There was never another option.


	77. history of the ruins

**Title**: history of the ruins

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: _conflagration

* * *

_

He doesn't remember much. Sometimes, he thinks that's a mercy. But sometimes he wishes he had more memories, to pass the stories on to Sam, what happened those four years before fire.

Dad has the words; he just can't bear to speak them. Dean asked once, after that night. Just once. The look on Dad's face kept him from asking ever again.

He remembers the way sunlight struck her hair. He remembers how her hands felt, guiding his to hold Sammy. He remembers her voice, laughing as Daddy spun her around the kitchen. He remembers her scent, dirt and sweat and flowers from the garden. He remembers nothing else.

Daddy lives only in his scant memories, the gentle man who told him adventures and tickled him until he begged for mercy. Daddy burned with Mama.

He doesn't remember much. Sometimes, he wishes he remembered more, so he had something to tell Sam, some history of their family before flames.

And sometimes he wishes he remembered less, so that what was taken didn't hurt so damned much.


	78. asleep inside the cannon's mouth

**Title**: asleep inside the cannon's mouth

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "You Will Be My Ain True Love" performed by Allison Krauss.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: gen

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 375

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: another that is months old. I think it was originally supposed to be a "Born Under A Bad Sign" fic.

* * *

His hands tremble, shudder and shake, fingers clumsy on the gun. His eyes burn, inside and out, ache with knowledge, and the fear that comes with it.

_What am I? What am I supposed to do—what __**can**__ I do?_

_Who will stand with me when the time comes and I can no longer back away?_

o0o

When John Winchester learned the truth, he realized he had never before felt true despair. He'd never felt so hopeless, so lost, not even just after November.

_Death is just another adventure, _his long-dead baby brother whispers in his ear. _Wait, Johnny. The play isn't ready yet. Patience. _

o0o

Mary never meant for Sam—or Dean—to get her curse.

Of course, Mary never meant a lot of things. And in the end, what was _meant_… just doesn't matter. Only what _happened_ does.

She slumps in Hell's coldest corner, skin slick with sweat and stained with blood, ignored by the fire, wishing that she had known sooner. Because maybe, just maybe, then she could have saved her sons.

Then again, maybe not.

o0o

It whispers in the darkest corners of his mind.

_You're mine. No matter what else comes, know that—you're mine.__ You have belonged to me since before your first breath._

He can't ignore it, shut off its voice, turn away from its words. He can't pretend it's not there, because it's everywhere he looks, everything he hears.

_You'll join me, when the time comes. You'll not be able to stop. I can swear to that._

Every day, every second, and he starts listening more and more. He can't help it. The words twist around, in, deep into his blood and bone, seep into his soul.

o0o

His hands tremble, shudder and shake, clumsy on the gun, and his brother begs, eyes terrified.

_Save me. This is the only way. _

_Save me, please._

_Dean… save me._

o0o

Mary never meant for this. When she sees John in Hell—_a deal's a deal—_she clings to him, whispering for absolution.

He gives it freely, and asks for his own.

o0o

_Stand with me, _he says.

His brother raises the gun.

_Dean, _he laughs. _You could never kill me._

There are tears on Dean's face, and he no longer points the gun at Sam.


	79. his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

**Title**: his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Maya Angelou

**Warnings**: AU for "Mystery Spot"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 330

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean's dead, killed by a damned civilian's jumpy trigger finger. He died in Sam's arms, months too soon. Sam is numb, can't feel anything at all.

Henriksen will be here soon, will arrive. So Sam leaves, settling Dean into the passenger seat and driving. There's got to be a crossroad's near. He killed the demon that made Dean's deal, but there's always more.

No music, no talking—the Impala growls and that's all the noise Sam will allow.

He buries the tin box and waits. No one comes. He waits through dawn and dusk, and no one comes to bargain with him. He waits through another dawn, sitting cross-legged at the center of the crossroad, and a second dusk passes.

No one comes.

He's hungry and tired and cold deep inside. So cold. Beneath the frozen wasteland, he feels fire building.

Dean's dead. Maybe he's in Heaven, since he died before the year was up. But maybe he's not. Sam can't be sure.

A fucking _civilian_ killed Dean. Some normal guy. And Sam couldn't stop it. He's supposed to be some powerful chosen one of demons, the winner of Azazel's fucked up game, Ruby's King of Hell. And he couldn't save his own brother, the one person left that he loves.

The sun rises. Dean's decomposing in his car. Sam realizes that tears are pouring down his face.

It's all wrong. So completely fucking _wrong_. That is not how Dean will die.

For the first time since, Sam speaks. "You hear me?" he yells at the sky. "It's not gonna be like that!"

Around him, the wind rushes and there's roaring in his ears.

o0o

He wakes up to Dean tying his boots in the next bed.

o0o

By the fifth day, Sam's realized why no demon came to deal with him. And if he has to burn existence to do it, he _will_ find a way to keep Dean alive. He has all the time in the world.


	80. no longer would I sing alone

**Title**: no longer would I sing alone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: mentions of Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: um… yeah. I'd almost classify this as crack.

* * *

A single candle can't light up the whole world. Not even a wildfire can chase away all the shadows from the corners, where they breed evil and spawn more terror for Dean to fight.

Not that Dean thinks he's all light and daises and sunrises. He knows that sometimes his darkness almost overwhelms his light, and those times are where he scares himself. He can be a downer, as many people have told him, always with the negativity and death. And that was when he decided to spend the rest of his life with a smile on his face, doing his best to shine a little more light.

But then Sam left, and so did the light, and the smiles, and suddenly the sunrises weren't as triumphant.

The darkness prowled close in his soul, and he fought harder, to keep himself from that edge where the light would be completely overwhelmed.

o0o

For four years he shone alone. His father barely registered in the light department, as opposed to his own flickering glow and Sam's vibrant shine.

For four years he wilted and faded, trying to do his best, but Dean was not made to shine alone.

For four years he waited. He knew Sam would eventually return, he just didn't know when.

And now Sammy's back, but his light has waned, darkened with sorrow and rage. But… Dean's still glad, because any light from Sam is better than none at all.


	81. the dead will live again

**Title**: the dead will live again

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Mary, Did You Know?"

**Warnings**: future!fic, AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Prompt**: _incindere_

* * *

It's easy to burn a world. You just have to decide you don't care anymore, that nothing matters. Once that's out of the way… well.

Apocalypse.

o0o

You were overlooked by everyone. The soldier, they all thought. Loyal to the end. Only good for following orders.

Nope, as it turns out. Whatever he got born with, you had it first.

Maybe not as potent a dose, but still… enough.

And with him gone… no one left to stop you.

o0o

There's always a rough draft. Sammy was you, honed. His creator ignored you as a failure.

A costly mistake. Deadly.

For everyone.

* * *


	82. Salt me a bird and be its noose

**Title**: Salt me a bird and be its noose

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: AU for "Bad Day at Black Rock"; character death

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam grunts, falling to his knee for a moment then forcing himself back up. Dean glances at him and whirls around, gun in hand and fired before the bitch can say a single thing. Bella goes down, blood blooming on her face, the back of her head gone. 

Dean doesn't spare her a solitary look, hurrying to Sam. "Sammy?" he asks.

"'m'fine," Sam tells him. "It'll heal."  
Sam insists that they deal with the foot and the body before seeing to his shoulder. Arguing would take more time, so Dean agrees.

Once he has Sam secreted away in a room, he backtracks. The two Jesus-freaks(according to how Sam described them) are gone, but easy to follow.

It'll be written off as a traffic accident, and Sam will be a bit safer. Not safe enough—never safe enough until no one else is alive to threaten him—but Dean has done what he can for the night.

So he goes back to Sam and watches his little brother sleep, content with the day: three enemies no longer a danger.

"Dean," Sam mutters, eyes blinking open. "Go'sleep."

He leans over, smoothing Sam's hair off his forehead. By light of day, he'd never be so soft, so tender. "Okay, dude," he replies gently. "Now, shut your eyes, go back to sleep."

Sam listens, eyelids fluttering closed. Dean stands bent over him for another moment. He sold his soul for this man, this boy, his baby brother. He's given everything he has, everything he is. He's always done, and never thought twice.

Sam's fully under, so Dean drops a swift kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams, Sammy," he whispers.

Three more souls on his own, to be burned for in the Pit. He watches Sam sleep and can't find it in him to regret.


	83. the underworld lashing back

**Title**: the underworld lashing back

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 100

* * *

_Blood in the water—fresh, pure. Spreading out, little droplets of red, fading away into the clear blue. _

_Blood in the water, churning and burning—the water was holy, until touched by the red._

_Pure blood, fresh blood—pure darkness, fresh from Hell. _

_Sodden silver, pouring down—holiest of holies, tainted and torn. Holiest of holies, silver to crimson to gone._

_Blood in the water, spreading a message across the world: __**Brother. Brother. Come. I'm here.**_

_Blood in the water, touching all land, seeping into the dirt and the air._

_Blood in the water speaks: __**Come back to me, Dean**__. _


	84. You will be alone always

**Title**: You will be alone always and then you will die

**Disclaimer**: not my character; title from Richard Siken

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Dean dies, it's quiet. Gentle. He doesn't fight or cling to life, or even try to speak, to utter some last words into the still night.

Dean doesn't do anything but look up at the sky while his heart stutters and then stops, brain clearing every thought but one.

It's been a long time coming, this final moment, and he's glad for it. The sky is dotted with stars and the Cheshire Cat moon grinning down at him, knowing secrets he can't begin to fathom and doesn't want to.

He doesn't fight. Doesn't even think about it. Lets go.


	85. I don't like how the song goes

**Title**: I don't like the way the song goes

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Richard Siken

**Warnings**: spoilers for season three

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 360

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for mitchsgirl, late for her birthday, to her prompt of _Dean came back from hell with some of those fancy demon powers/attributes that he so despises_.

* * *

Dean escapes Hell during the first rebellion against Lilith. He's still mostly human, remembering life before, clinging tight to memories of brotherSammy and trying to find him.

Azazel's daughter tracks him down and drags him back.

Bitch.

o0o

His next escape is during the third rebellion. He doesn't remember why he has to leave, just that he must.

Once topside, he seeks out a body. He chooses a young male in the prime of life. From the man, he learns that the year is 2385 and war is about to rip apart the world.

He stays through the fighting, finding fleeting pleasure in shredding bodies and minds. At the end, after Earth is a wasteland, he goes back to Hell.

o0o

Lilith has lost the throne and her existence in his absence. The new queen has stepped out of her father's shadow and claimed power. She chooses a name and rules with an iron will.

She enjoys playing with him, tormenting him, making him scream and writhe and whimper for mercy. She asks once if he remembers the first time they met.

She almost seems disappointed when he says no.

o0o

He claws his way out of Hell a third time and there are no humans left on Earth. It is a new species, but they have bodies that can be shredded and worn, and they have families that can be toyed with, so he doesn't complain.

The queen sends a legion for him and they force him back.

In his fury, he demands of her, "Why me?"

She laughs. Rips into him and laughs.

o0o

But he escapes again. The creatures are on the edge of annihilation, like humans before them, and he doesn't take a body, just watches. Watches and waits and wonders about the life he had before Hell.

They die and something new takes over and he watches in silence.

o0o

He goes back to Hell because it is familiar.

A new ruler sits on the throne, a king with flaming green eyes. A bottom-feeder tells him that the king had been working behind the scenes for a very long time.

"What's this king go by?" he asks.

The bottom-feeder says, "Winchester."


	86. come let me hold you

**Title**: come let me hold you

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Patty Loveless.

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_You're so small, _she thinks, staring down at her baby boy, nestled into her arms, wrapped up in a soft blue blanket. _So small… so new._ It'd be so easy to hurt him, to break him, and how could she have thought she was ready for this?

John walks into the nursery, greasy from work, and smiles down at them. "How's the big guy doin'?" he asks.

She looks up at him, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, babe," he whispers, kneeling next to her. "Don't do this again." His large, calloused hand cups her cheek, fingers caressing her skin.

She nuzzles into him, a small sob stuttering out. "I'm sorry, Johnny," she says, looking back down at Dean. Two miscarriages and one stillborn little girl, and now she has a baby, a son, so tiny and fragile, and she could shatter him so easily—

John sighs and leans in, kissing her forehead before moving down to her lips. "Everything will be fine, Mary. You'll see."

She wants to believe him. He gently takes Dean from her and tells her to get some rest. With one last look at their boy, she goes. She doesn't sleep, just lies in bed listening to John croon lullabies.


	87. and comes the call of the ocean

**Title**: and comes the call of the ocean

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 690

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Lilith lays spread out on the ground before Sam, in her true form, writhing and begging for mercy. His rage flays her, dark demonblood spilling out onto Hell's acrid dirt, and Sam does not stop.

"My brother," he says. "Give him to me."

"He's not here!" Lilith keens, voice almost lost in a scream. "He hasn't been here since the beginning!"

"Then where," Sam hisses, bending down to grip what passes for her neck, "is he?"

"I don't know!" She whimpers as his grip tightens. "We had him for one day, and then he vanished."

Sam pauses, studying her with a careful eye. She believes her words to be true. Which means she lost his brother.

_She lost his brother._

Lilith burns to ashes and then Sam's hatred turns to the remnants of Hell.

o0o

Sam wanders. He ignores the demons following him, sidesteps the hunters who hunt him, and doesn't speak. He destroys anything that gets in his way. He doesn't track time as it flows, and he doesn't age. Eventually, the demons and hunters both leave him be, when they realize he isn't doing anything but traveling the country, going from one border to the next.

o0o

On the thirtieth anniversary of Dean's disappearance, Sam stops by Monterey Bay in California. Time seems to have stopped here, just people going about their lives.

Sam watches the water, stretching to the horizon, meeting the sky. He watches the otters and seals and sea lions, thinks about how much Dean would have loved it here. He can imagine Dean's voice, sounding like a little boy, in love with the place.

He can imagine so well, and it hurts. He almost hears Dean on the cold Pacific wind.

o0o

Every day, Sam goes back to the same spot on the coast. He watches the gulls and pelicans, watches the cormorants, the seals and sea lions and otters. Twice a week, he takes an ocean tour and goes out, closes his eyes on the front of the ship, feels the salt air on his face, the wind lashing him.

Sometimes, he sees whales, humpback and blue, and he never quits feeling awe.

o0o

A year passes. Two. Sam's as home as he's been since the hound tore Dean apart. There are people he sees every day, faces and names he knows.

On the thirty-third anniversary of Dean's disappearance, Sam chooses a spot on the coast, a hard-to-reach beach that no one ever goes to, and strips to his bare skin. Then he steps into the water and starts swimming.

o0o

Sam hasn't felt anything but a deep, numbed cold since Dean's disappearance, even in Hell. The water doesn't even bother him.

He swims out past land's furthest reach, untiring, unceasing. He swims for a day and a night without rest. A pod of dolphins keeps pace with him part of the way, and he nearly laughs at their playfulness. But he hasn't laughed since Dean wasn't there to share the joke anymore, and finally the dolphins move on.

Sam floats on his back, watching the sky. With his ears underwater, he's in a quiet bubble of silence. Then, he hears music, deep thrumming, reverberating through his body. It's beautiful. It's holy.

It makes him think of Dean.

o0o

For seven sunrises and seven sunsets, Sam floats in the Pacific. He listens to the music, and finally realizes what it is as a behemoth surfaces besides him, studies him with one humongous eye.

Whalesong. A humpback whale, the largest living thing Sam's ever seen so close. It floats next to him for a while, just watching him like he watches the sky.

"Hello," Sam says, his first word in a long time.

The whale hums and sinks back under.

o0o

Sam's not hungry or thirsty or tired. He doesn't feel the cold of the water or the heat of the sun. He's just there, staring at the sky, breathing. Listening to whalesong and missing Dean.

The whale comes back, barely nudges him. Makes some noise Sam doesn't have the words to describe.

He smiles, reaches out to touch the whale. It hums again, and the music sounds like _Sammy_.


	88. calling your name, calling you mine

**Title**: calling your name, calling you mine

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 210

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean's looking out the window again. Sam wonders if he remembers at all.

His tail lashes. His ears swivel around. He arches his spine, head tilted back in a yawn that reveals his needle-sharp canines. His paw touches the pane, following a bird's flight across the parking lot.

Sam thinks he was Dean, back at the beginning, in those first few days after the transformation. But now… it's been months and months, and Sam doesn't see his brother anymore. Not in the cat's disdain or the way he watches Sam's movements carefully. He's just a cat. Not a cat-shaped Dean—but a real, true _cat_.

Dean's looking out the window again, perched on a ledge that shouldn't support a tom of his size. He yawns again, licking his paw and rubbing his ear, kneading his claws into the wood of the windowsill.

"Dean?" Sam asks for the billionth time, intently searching for any hint of his big brother. "C'mon, man, please, give me something. Anything."

Nothing. The cat ignores him completely, watching pigeons, and Sam wants to curl up into a sobbing ball. Wants his big brother to make everything better, so much it hurts.

The large caramel-cream cat who is not his brother looks out the window, tail lashing.


	89. mind and heart must grow to touch

**Title**: mind and heart must grow to touch

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Denise Levertov.

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 670

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

Dad and Sammy are asleep, and you know they'll both want milk in the morning. Dad was too tired when you told him, and fell asleep before he could go get it, and Sammy just crawled up onto his chest and went to sleep, too. But that's alright, because you're a big boy now, and you can take care of your family.

It's snowing, but not that hard, and you know right where the store is. You grab a handful of dollars from Dad's emergency stash, and your thickest coat. You know you have to hurry, because Dad'll be mad you left. But being able to make them both a bowl of cereal with real, actual, _cold milk_ will be worth it. So worth it.

The store is just down the block. It'll only take a few minutes, and you'll have milk—maybe even marshmallows, for hot chocolate! Dad'd said he wanted some, and he'll be so happy if you make it for him. You'll prove you're a big boy, able to take care of Sammy and Dad both.

You shiver in your coat, rubbing your hands together. The store is only around the corner. But the wind is blowing hard, and the snow keeps coming down more and more, and you can't remember if you're supposed to turn at the first stop sign or second, and it's really _really_ cold now.

You know you should get back inside. Back to the house _right now_, burrow beneath the blanket with Dad and Sammy. But you can't see in the snow, don't know which way to go, and—

_Dean_.

And it's so cold. You've never ever been this cold in your whole life, and Dad will be so mad if you turn into an icicle, and who'll take care of Sammy when Dad's too tired, and—

_Baby boy, shh. _

You stop on the sidewalk, shivering, teeth chattering, because that sounded like Mommy. But it can't be Mommy, because she's gone, to Heaven and the angels.

_Listen to me, Dean. Everything will be just fine._

"'s'cold, Mommy," you try to say, but the words catch in your throat when a particularly harsh gust blows through you, into you, and you want to be home _right now_, with Dad and Sammy, milk be damned.

_Listen to me, love. Turn around and walk in a straight line._

It's Mommy. It's really really her, so you do as she says. You walk and you walk, even though you can't see beyond your nose, even though everything is white and bright and so so cold.

_Now, left, Dean. Straight on. _

You turn and stumble and force yourself back up, because you're a big boy and Mommy is counting on you. You have to get home, to Dad and Sammy, because it's your job to take care of them now.

You trudge, coat wrapped tight around you, snow sticking to your hair and eyelashes, wishing you'd never left the house.

_Just a bit more, Dean, love. You can do it—I know you can._

You sob, tears in your eyes from the cold. Mommy says you can, knows you can, and Sammy's at the other end, Sammy and Daddy, and warmth—

_There_.

You trip, hands sliding through the snow to hit wood. A stair… the house's front stairs! They lead to the porch, where there's the door—

_Well done, Dean. I am so proud of you, my darling. _

You crawl up the stairs and shove your way to the door, through the snow, and it's warm, so so warm—

"Daddy!" you sob once inside, forcing the door closed behind you. "Daddy!"

He wakes with a start, jackknifing up on the couch, catching Sammy as he slips off.

"Dean?"

You run to him, shedding the coat and sodden shirt, shivering so hard you can't speak. Daddy gently sets Sammy aside, who's barely stirring, and scoops you up, cradling you as you curl into his chest.

"I got you, baby boy," Daddy softly rumbles, one hand carding your hair. "I got you."


	90. Better to reign

**Title**: Better to reign

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Dean walks into Hell, one look back at his brother left on Earth. _

_Dean walks into Hell, and Sam watches him go._

_He swore to Dean he wouldn't do anything stupid, wouldn't follow him down._

_He swore; Dean goes with Sam's last promise echoing in his ears._

_o0o_

_Dean walks into Hell and Lucifer greets him in the ballroom of a bone-white castle._

_"Welcome home, boy," the first of the fallen angels says._

_Dean grins cockily. Lucifer smirks back._

_o0o_

_Dean walks into Hell. Sam swore he wouldn't follow._

_So he doesn't. _

_Instead, he brings Hell to Earth and greets Dean, smiling._


	91. Her stockings are torn

**Title**: Her stockings are torn, but she is beautiful

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season two

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 160

**Point of view**: third

* * *

The night after Dean kills The Demon, Sam dreams of a cross on fire. A deep voice calls him _Sacrilege_ and Sam flinches, shuddering. "You shouldn't be here, walking blasphemy," the voice—male, dark, thundering—continues. "Only the Son has ever woken from death, or caused others to wake."

"I'm sorry," Sam cries, tears welling in his eyes. "I didn't mean to come back, but I had to!" He whirls in place, looking for the speaker. "I couldn't leave Dean alone."

The voice scoffs. "You had a choice, Samuel. You should have stayed gone. You would've been happy there."

Sam lifts his head. "I'd rather defy God than let Dean down."

Sam wakes to the speaker snarling, "You'll watch the world burn, Sacrilege."

But he sits up and sees Dean grinning, happy and free from that stifling weight he'd been carrying for nearly twenty-five years, and Sam can't find it in him to care what the voice has to say.


	92. cracked stars shining

**Title**: cracked stars shining

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: AU

**Wordcount**: 350

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: lucywiggin, for her birthday

**Notes**: prompt was SuperSpecial!Protective!Sammy

* * *

Three days after Dean clawed his way out of Hell, covered in blood and ash, the stench of sulfur and brimstone clinging to him, Sam kills a man for getting too close to him. The guy isn't possessed or making any threatening move, but he brushes against Dean on the street and Sam directs a thought his way, stopping his heart.

The authorities write it off as a heart-attack and Dean never notices. They shouldn't have been near people so soon, anyway. Dean still doesn't do so well in a crowd, probably never will again.

Which is fine, and Sam understands. It's his turn to play protector, to look after his brother. He hasn't done a good job so far—done a piss-poor job, actually—but he has the rest of eternity to make up for it now.

Everything is tinted gold, glimmering in the shine of his power. Dean is only comfortable with him, away from towns, the sky stretching above them and hard dirt beneath their feet. Sam watches Dean carefully, looking for ways to make everything better. Dean never seems to notice.

Sam misses Dean's voice, his stupid jokes, his complaints, his laughter. He misses Dean's smile, Dean's smirk, Dean's sneer. He misses his big brother, the man who gave himself up to Hell because he couldn't stand the thought of failing his little brother.

Dean clawed his way out. He found Sam by following the scent of Sam's power, those demon-given talents, but he's not really Dean anymore.

Everything is tinted golden, but Sam still remembers how Dean's eyes looked angry and defiant, joyful and exuberant, filled with wonder—wide and empty, just dead hazel, with no hint of life left. He misses Dean's eyes most of all, now, whenever that blank, black gaze focuses on him.

"C'mon, Dean," he says, holding out a hand. "Let's head back to the cabin."

Dean shuffles forward, letting himself be led.

It's Sam's turn to be the big brother. He'll do whatever it takes to keep Dean safe.

Whatever it takes.

Above him, the sky is tinted golden.


	93. fiend hid in a cloud

**Title**: fiend hid in a cloud

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Infant Sorrow" by William Blake.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: Dean/Layla

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It happens in his sleep, gently, a soft easing away. He doesn't even realize it, at first—in his dream, he's riding a giant black stallion and they're loping toward the sunset, wind in his hair and on his face, stealing away his laughter. It's perfect, the best he's felt in a long time, completely in-tuned with the horse.

There's a beach in the distance, a little boat waiting for him, Layla standing beside it. He urges the stallion faster.

Dean slides down, leaning into the horse for a moment. He nuzzles at Dean's side, whuffling his hair. "Good boy," Dean murmurs, patting the stallion's shoulder before backing up. "Head on, now. Your part's done."

(_wake up, wake up, something's wrong, can't you see?)_

"Dean," Layla says, stepping out of the water, her face gentle in a welcoming smile. "It's so good to see you."

She's beautiful, ethereal, whole and healthy, and he lightly touches her cheek, traces his finger along her jaw. "I thought you couldn't be healed?" he asks.

Layla smiles again, knowingly. "I wasn't."

_(wake up, this isn't right—wake up, damn you!)_

He tilts his head, studies her. "Well, you look good," he says and she laughs.

"Thank you," she answers, reaching up to cup his face. "Come with me, Dean."

He stares down at her, into her eyes, and there's something he should be remembering. "Where?"

She takes his hand, raises it to her lips, kisses his knuckles. "Away. Does it matter?"

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, guess not."

_(wake up, damnit, can't you feel how wrong this is?)_

He grips her hand and follows her to the boat, pushes it down through the water, away from the sand, towards the sun. Layla laughs when water sprays up at her. Far down the beach, the stallion rears; Dean swears the horse is laughing with joy.

It's easy, so easy, to let go, to float out into the ocean with Layla, to leave the land behind. They chuckle and talk, share stories.

_—there's something he should be remembering—_

The sun sets and rises. He's not hungry or thirsty, and beneath the warm sky, he and Layla make love. She fits with him, perfectly, and he holds her, far more contented than he can recall from ever before.

They sail on; dolphins dance around their boat, and whales sing, and Dean points out shapes in the cloud. Layla scoffs and shows him different ones.

He's happy, really he is, but

_—something's missing—_

Layla kisses him as they sail off the edge of the world.

_(wake up, damn you, please)_

o0o

They beat the crossroad's demon at her own game and Sam goes to sleep ecstatic. He wakes late the next morning; Dean's still in bed. Sam thinks nothing of it—he'd want to sleep in on the morning after he should have died, too.

It's only when he comes out of the bathroom that he realizes there's the sound of one person breathing.


	94. I'll love you 'til I die

**Title**: I'll love you 'til I die

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "He Stopped Loving Her Today" performed by George Jones.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: Dean/crossroad's demon, sorta

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 290

**Point of view**: third

* * *

She comes for him at midnight, a pack of shadow-dogs with her. She is in her own form: a female body of smoke and ash, fire leaping in her garnet eyes.

He hadn't tried to run the first time he heard baying; he doesn't try now.

"Are you happy, Dean Winchester?" she asks, her voice the wind in trees.

There is no point in lying. "Yes," he replies, peace in his heart.

He is going to Hell, but Sam is alive.

She trails her hand—burningwarm—along his jaw. "Good," she says. "It thrills me to know my clients are content."

The dogs sit at her feet, waiting for her command. "They love the hunt," she tells Dean. "You've denied my pets their fun."

"Sorry," he responds, staring past her, down the road.

Sam will wake soon. Dean only gave him enough to last for a few hours. He wants this to be done before Sam arrives.

"You're a good boy, Dean," she murmurs, leaning close, breathing against his face. "You haven't tried to get out of the deal." She kisses him and tastes like brimstone. "Content yourself with this, Dean," she whispers into his mouth. "At least you'll never be cold again. You're my special pet—I'll take care of you."

He is going to Hell, and he is at peace with that—because Sammy is alive. Sammy's more important than him, better than him, can do more good for the world than he ever could.

She twines her fingers through his. "Come home, Dean," she says.

He doesn't feel her take his soul or his body collapse. But he does see the gates open. He follows her in, the dogs streaming around them.

He's already forgotten Sam's name.


	95. We had blue skies

**Title**: We had blue skies, but they came falling down

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Luther Vandross.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_On day three-hundred-and-sixty-six, just because he can, Sam Winchester turns off the sun. _

_Around him, Creation screams. In Heaven, the ground trembles and angels murmur in fear. In Hell, the Palace of Bone groans and demons shiver for the first time in eons._

_He waits. Both of the Realms will send an emissary, someone to beg and plead that he return the life-giving star._

_He will have one demand, one simple request. Both Realms will follow it to the letter… or it will be more than the sun he turns off next._

_He sits on the Impala's hood and breathes._


	96. They brought me bitter news

**Title**: They brought me bitter news and bitter tears to shed  
**Disclaimer**: only the woman is mine. Just for fun. Title from Cory.  
**Warnings**: future!fic  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 240  
**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam lights a candle on Dean's thirtieth birthday. The people huddled in the church for sanctuary have no idea who he is.

A woman—petite, dark eyes, pale skin, in a raggedy sundress and a stained coat—asks, "Who do you mourn?" as he turns from the alcove.

He glances at her before looking past, at the old men and grieving women, at the young families trying to survive.

He did this, with his rage and his grief. He did this, with his hate and his pain.

"My brother," he answers, bringing his haunted eyes back to her. "He died almost a year ago."

"I'm sorry," she says, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "I lost my husband in the first wave, too." Her smile is sad, wavering. But the comfort she offers is real.

He wishes he could take it. But the demons will grow restless if they aren't fed soon. They'll rampage over Earth again. And Dean, wherever Lucifer stashed his soul, would never forgive himself if Sam let the demons loose once more.

"I'm sorry," he tells her and brushes past, slipping through the crowd. No one ever goes outside at night, no one but those who want to die, so no one will follow him.

_Only a little longer_, he tells himself. _Only a little longer, and then Lucifer will give him back to me._

_If I can trust the Lord of Lies… _


	97. Styx's Wind

**Title**: Styx's Wind

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "All Hell Breaks Loose" part 1

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 225

**Point of view**: third

* * *

_He's cold, so cold. Everything's dark. He should be doing something, but he can't remember what—so cold._

_What was he doing? Before the coldness and the darkness, he was doing—something. And now… now… _

_Voice in the distance, panicked and angry. Hands on his back, at the point of origin for the pain spreading throughout him, mingling with the cold and the dark. A voice he knows, a touch he'd recognize in his sleep— _

_But the name escapes him. It dangles on the tip of his tongue, but he's freezing too much to suss out what it is, and the hands are warm on his back, arms tight around him, and the voice keeps whispering, begging, murmuring, pleading. _

_He's freezing, shivering in his bones, and everything keeps getting darker. He needs to hold on, he knows it, but he's just so tired. _

_His body aches, his heart hurts, and he needs to hold on but he can't. The voice is weaker now, full of tears, and that hurts him, too, but not enough to fight harder. _

_He needs to speak, to tell the voice to let him go, that he's too tired to stay, but his own voice is ignoring him. Stolen by the cold. _

_And he lets go. Turns back once when he hears the voice scream "Sam!" but then he's gone. _


	98. price of a soul

**Title**: price of a soul

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She's waiting at the crossroad when he goes, skin golden and hair long, eyes sky-blue. "Samuel Winchester," she purrs. "I've been expecting you."

Without preamble, he asks, "What will it take for you to let him go?"

She smiles. "His soul is mine, sweet boy. You have nothing I want."

He stares at her, mind rushing too swiftly for words, discarding ideas as quickly as he forms them. "Please," he entreats. "There must be _something_."

She cants her head, eyes flickering crimson. "Does he know you're here, little brother?"

"No." Sam bites his lip. "He told me I can't look for a way out. He thinks I'll just let him go."

She smiles again and steps forward. "Tell me… if I asked you to become my pet, would you?"

He straightens to his full height, towering over her. "You'd release him, swear to never harm him, never cause him harm in _any_ way?"

She nods. "My word is my bond, and I cannot break it."

"Okay," Sam says. He licks his lips. "What does being your pet entail?"

Her mouth curves in the darkest grin he's ever seen. "You'll live out your natural life, your brother with you, if you can keep him. And when you die, your soul is mine. I'll do with it what I please, for as long as I want, but you won't go to Hell. That, I swear."

He closes his eyes and thinks hard, but there is no other way. "Alright," he answers. "Deal."

She kisses him, lips warm and soft, and he endures it. As she pulls away, she says, "Go back to him, little brother. Revel in the knowledge that, if you can keep him alive, he'll live a long, long time." She reaches up to pat his cheek. "For a human."


	99. This Is Goodbye

**Title**: This is Goodbye

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: after Dean's deal comes due; AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 400

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Sam does not speak to Dean. For days, weeks, months, he is silent. He pretends nothing has happened; he pretends nothing is wrong.

Dean waits. He understands. It's not easy for him, but Sammy… Dean sighs, watching Sam pace across the hotel room. It takes him less than twenty steps around the entire perimeter.

Sam lays down salt every night, carves protective sigil on top of protective sigil. He doesn't answer the phone or check his email. He's in there, Dean can tell, but it's still like no one's home.

This isn't what Dean wanted. Nowhere near it.

It's been long enough of silence, so Dean says, "Sammy."

Sam doesn't look over, just keeps pacing. Lost somewhere deep inside his own head.

"Sammy," he says again. "I know you can hear me. And this…" He pauses. Never been good with words, and now he's gotta be good enough to bring Sam back. "You didn't fail, Sam." Dean looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap, fingers entwined. "So this isn't what you meant." He tries smiling, glancing up.

Sam's still ignoring him. Dean can deal with that. Dealt with it fine when they were kids, and then again when Sam was at Stanford and never accepted Dean's calls.

"I'm free, Sam. Not in Hell. And that's somethin'."

It's been five months of silence, of Sam never looking at him, never reacting or responding. Of Sam not reacting or responding to anything, just moving from town to town, room to room, almost more of a spirit than Dean.

There is no body. There aren't even ashes. Lucifer's a damned bastard when someone outsmarts him.

But there is a golden amulet, hanging around Sam's neck, resting next to Sam's heart.

Sam does not speak. But he listens. Dean knows he does, and that's why he never stops talking.

"I'm free, Sam," he repeats. "And I know…" He sighs again. "And I know one day you'll wake up, be my pain in the ass little brother again. I'll be here, when you do."

It's a split second movement, but Sam glances over. Dean smiles.

Lucifer's a bastard, but he's no Winchester. Dean's still here, still fighting, and somewhere locked inside, so is Sam. And that's enough.

Not what Dean wanted, and not what Sam meant, but Hell isn't where either one of them is going. Maybe not Heaven, either.

"I'll be here."


	100. Sunset

**Title**: Sunset

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Well, damn," he says with a little laugh. "Sure is a big-ass hole in the ground."

o0o

There're two months left and Sam's working like crazy, digging himself deeper and deeper into despair.

There's no way out and they both know it, but Sam's got the Winchester stubbornness and he refuses to let go.

o0o

"Dean," Sam calls softly and Dean turns back from the edge.

With a small, sad smile, Dean says, "I know."

o0o

There's one month left and Sam's burnt out. With every breath, he apologizes to Dean, but Dean brushes them off.

"It's what I do," he says. "Who I am. And I can't regret it."

Sam nods, eyes tearing, and replies, voice tinged with self-loathing and pain, "I know."

o0o

The sun sets across the Canyon and they wait in shattered silence.

o0o

There's one week left and Dean says, "Let's go to the Grand Canyon—never been there before."

o0o

Sam's hand is warm and strong on his shoulder. Dean can't think of anything to say that hasn't already been said. He waits for Sam to speak, and Sam clears his throat a couple of times, but no words come out.

And she comes.


	101. no thorns, this rose

**Title**: no thorns, this rose

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_It's gonna end, and that's a promise. _

o0o

Three days till: Dean's vanished in the middle of the night. Sam wakes to an empty room.

o0o

_It's gonna end, and everything'll be better. You'll see._

o0o

Two days till: Sam's tracked Dean to the Grand Canyon. How he got there with no car, from half a continent away, Sam doesn't know.

o0o

_It's gonna end. Just you wait._

o0o

One day till: Sam's followed Dean, and they watch the dawn together.

o0o

_It's gonna end… and it'll be a relief._

o0o

No day till: a shadow comes for Dean, blacker than black, cold as Jack Frost's breath.

o0o

_It's gonna end… _

o0o

Day after: there is a sunrise. Sam watches it alone, then glances over at the bed, where Dean's stretched out, chest rising and falling.

o0o

_It's gonna end… don't fight it._

o0o

Two days after: Sam summons the shadow back and demands it return his brother. The shadow laughs.

o0o

_It's gonna end, and I'm fine with that._

o0o

Three days after: there is no sunrise, anywhere on Earth. Sam doesn't know what he's doing, and he doesn't care. He'll get Dean back, one way or another.

o0o

_It's gonna end… so just let it._

o0o

Fifteen days after: Dean's eyelids blink open.

o0o

_It's gonna end, Sammy. Let me go._

o0o

Sixteen days after: the sun rises, warming long-frozen dirt.

o0o

_It's gonna end, finally. Don't hang on._

o0o

Seventeen days after: Dean says a single word. Sam clutches him close, whispering thanks to anyone listening.

o0o

_Didn't it end?_

o0o

Twenty days after: Dean is back to his old self, soul intact. He's furious, but got no room to talk. Sam just basks in his presence, feeling whole again.

o0o

_Sammy… what have you done?_

o0o

Twenty-one days after: they get back on the road, pointing the Impala north. Sam's sitting shotgun and all is right with the world.


	102. Tis not too late to seek a newer world

**Title**: 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Tennyson.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_He walks into the sunset, hand-in-hand with Death. It is warm, so warm, chasing away the coldness. His limbs don't ache and his heart doesn't hurt; he doesn't gasp for breath. _

_Death is gentle and kind, offering him a smile. The grass is green and the sky dark, and the warm breeze feels perfect on his skin._

"_Stay with me," Death says. "Don't be afraid."_

_Behind him, far away, he hears a scream. He can't make out the words._

"_Ignore it," Death says, reaching up to touch his jaw. "It's nothing."_

_And it's nothing at all, nothing worth turning around, away from Death's soft skin and deep red eyes. "Come," Death says. "You'll like where we're going."_

_There's another scream, agonizing, and he pauses; it's familiar, so familiar, but far away… Death says, "We're almost there."_

_Almost there. Almost home. Away from pain forever, always warm. The sun fully sets and the stars are beautiful… he could look at them forever._

"_Are there stars where we're going?" he asks and Death smiles._

"_More than you could ever count."_

_It's getting very warm, chasing away the chill in his bones for good. And Death says again, "We're almost there." _

_So warm._


	103. dealbreaker

**Title**: dealbreaker

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point of view**: third

* * *

_The_ _only way I'll let your brother out of his deal, Sammy_, the demon purred with its host's plump red lips, _is if you kill someone for me._

_Who?_ he asked without hesitation.

The demon smiled.

o0o

That yellow-eyed bastard who murdered Mom and Jessica and Dad is gone.

But, even still, neither of their souls are safe.

o0o

The first was an old woman in Boise, Idaho. Sam didn't know why. The second was a young man three towns over.

_Don't ask_, the demon whispered in his dreams. _Trust me, sweetie—you don't really wanna know. _

o0o

After the fifth killing—two women, three men—the demon says, _He's yours again, Sammy. _

Sam nods.

_I'll need one more death to complete the deal,_ _though_, it adds.

He doesn't even feel surprised.

o0o

In Salvation there is a baby girl. She's about three, now, a precocious child who almost seems telepathic.

When Sam picks her up while her parents sleep down the hall, Rosie doesn't scream.

o0o

The final day of Dean's year dawns with a thunderstorm.

The sun sets and the hounds never come.


	104. just a whisper of smoke

**Title**: just a whisper of smoke

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Ghost in this House" performed by Allison Krauss.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He can't find Sam. Left alone for a minute—just a second, not long at all—and he's gone. Lost. Dean _can't find him_.

Dean searches the parking lot and the street, scours the car. Sam's _gone_.

Last time they were apart, Sam met up with an evil bitch. Sam _needs_ him, to stay safe.

Doesn't he? Dean sure as hell needs him—doesn't feel complete without him. The Stanford years sucked. Out loud.

He can't find Sam. Where the hell's he gone? He knows better than to wander off while they're working a case.

So he _didn't_ wander off. Something _took_ him. Snatched him up and vanished without a trace.

_Shit_. Sammy's gone. The missing people are never found, not even bodies…

… _Sammy_. He needs to find Sammy, _right the fuck **now**_.

He asks everyone inside and out, walks a mile in every direction, calls Sam's phone a hundred times.

Dean knows, though. Sam's _gone_. The thing that took Jenkins, the monster with a whining growl, has _Sam_.

It's personal, now. Dean will find this thing and kill it dead. Destroy it, utterly and forever.

He needs help, though. He notices the traffic camera and gets an idea.


	105. weave me into the sun

**Title**: weave me into the sun

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

There is no sun in Hell.

Not to say there's no heat, because there is. Endless, scorching heat. But no sun, only eternal fire. And there is a difference. A horrific, blatant difference.

The sun—warm, life-giving star that is the center of existence—offers comfort to all who soak up her rays. Creatures bask in her glow and know that they are alive.

In Hell, there is no cold. Only burning heat, comfortless and tortuous. In Hell, no one lives. Souls survive because they are not allowed to die.

There is no sun in Hell. Only barren caverns lit by pyres of skin and screams. Hell is Hell for everyone, even Lucifer, its king. And even he, god of demons and devils and the damned, misses the sun.

o0o

Dean Winchester spent a week in Hell. Seven human days. For him, eternity passed. For his brother, it only seemed like forever.

Dean doesn't remember much of his time Below, a gift from Above, to reward him for all the good he'd done, to even out the scorebook. Dean remembers fire and screams, and knives made of bone. Nothing else.

But once he's out, back on Earth and in his body, he feels compelled to sit outside on the hood of his car, beneath the sun with his face towards the sky. He stays there for hours every day, unmoving, soaking up the gentle heat. He freckles and tans, but never burns.

Sometimes, Sam sits besides him. Sometimes, Sam watches him. Sometimes, Sam talks to him.

Dean doesn't remember much, and he hasn't told Sam what he does. But Sam suspects, watching his brother, that there is no sun in Hell.


	106. There is a time I remember

**Title**: There is a time I remember

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: Mary/John

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written because I wanted to prove I can do 'cute'

* * *

"Dean Jonathan Winchester," Mommy calls. Dean freezes in place, caught in the act of opening the door. "_What_ do you think you're doing?"

Mommy had been napping with Sammy. Dean'll be in trouble when Daddy gets home—Mommy needs her rest.

He turns and grins up at her, trying to hide the slightly open door; he gently eases it closed. "Hi, Mommy!" he exclaims.

Mommy crosses her arms. "I asked you a question, Dean."

He hurries to her, reaching up for her hand. She lets him clutch her and picks him up, clucking her tongue. "Well?"

"Miss Rosie has pretty flowers," he says, nestling against her, linking his hands around her neck. "I wanted some for you."

She nuzzles his cheek. "Oh, Dean. Love, what'm I gonna do with you?"

He giggles, grinning again.

Mommy's arms tighten for a moment. "Dean," she says seriously. "Remember, baby—you don't go out the front unless me or Daddy go with you, right?"

Dean nods, leaning his head against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mommy. I wanted it as a surprise."

She sighs. "C'mon, Dean. Nap with me and Sammy. After, we'll all go get flowers together."

"Okay, Mommy."

She carries him upstairs and sets him on her bed, next to Sammy. Mommy lays down on Sammy's other side, reaching across his brother to take Dean's hand.

"I love you, Mommy," he whispers.

Mommy says softly, "I love you, Dean."


	107. hollowedout victory

**Title**: hollowed-out victory

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Bedtime Stories"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: to the prompt of _nothing gold can stay

* * *

_

Sam thinks he's won all the way until he opens the motel door and sees Dean spread out beneath the rough blanket, eyes wide and staring, chest unmoving.

"No no no no _no_," he says, voice breaking and rising, lunging forward to grip Dean's shoulders and shake him back to life.

He'd been sure, so fucking _sure_, and he gambled safe in the knowledge he'd win.

"Dean!" he yells, not caring at all if he wakes up the whole world, because Dean isn't responding, he isn't moving, it's like in that damned fucking basement all over again, except then when Sam did the CPR it worked, damnit, it worked. "_Damnit_, fuck you, don't leave me, don't _leave_—" Last time, it _worked_.

"Dean!" he howls, trying to breathe for his brother, trying to force him back in.

He'd won, fuck it all. He'd _won_, killed the bitch that took his brother's soul, and now she's had the last laugh, hasn't she, because Dean's _gone_.

"Dean," he whispers, wrapping himself around his brother, trying to make him warm, trying to keep his warmth in. "Dean, _please_."

He'd won, killed the evil and saved the good, and now the good's gone.

"_Dean…" _


	108. learn how to stand

**Title**: learn how to stand

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Michael Scott Lanning

**Warnings**: AU for "Bloodlust"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

A dozen minutes till dawn and Dean knows they can't leave a loose cannon at their back. Sam won't like it, but his opinion isn't important. Not in this.

It's a shame, because Dean had liked Gordon Walker, in the beginning. At the bar. Even at the motel room, talking shop.

But he doesn't like a man who threatens Sam. And Gordon looks down on Sam.

Sam would ask Dean to spare Gordon, to let him live. Sam likes to see the best in everyone.

Dean knows better.

Sam's on the way, so Dean does what has to be done.


	109. cleansing

**Title**: cleansing

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Born Under A Bad Sign"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 130

**Point** **of** **view** third

* * *

After he got his body back, after he'd seen to Dean's wounds(ignore big brother's flinch, it wasn't there, it _wasn't_), Sam took an hour-long shower, waiting till the scalding water became cold. He stood beneath the spray, scrubbing at his flesh, trying to get clean.

He scrubbed himself raw, but it did no good. He scrubbed himself raw, but he was still dirty.

Dean shuffled in a few minutes after Sam began crying, wearing only boxers, the bandage bright on his skin. He met Sam's eyes and stepped into the shower, taking the washcloth from Sam's lax grip.

"It wasn't you," he said, as he ran the soaked cloth across Sam's shoulders. "You had no control. You fought." He turned Sam around, absolution in his touch. "_It wasn't you."_


	110. murder, redefined

**Title**: murder, redefined  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for "The Benders"  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**; PG13  
**Wordcount**: 200  
**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean wandered through the sick-fuck hillbilly house in shock and disgust. Out of everything he'd ever hunted, nothing'd struck him like this before. To think, they were just _people_, human _beings_—so twisted they hunted their own, kept trophies to mark their triumph—

And they took _Sam_. That was a sin he could never, _would never_, forgive. They took Sam, wanted to _hurt_ him, _hunt_ him, _kill_ him. Wanted to carve up his body like Christmas roast.

Dean stalked the house, listing the crimes that the sick-fuck freaks needed to be punished for. Over a hundred murders that he could see, and the planned killing of _Sammy_—

_Just people_, Sammy said. But Dean knew better. No person could do what those freaks had over the years. They were no better than wendigos now. And wendigos could be hunted, no problem.

They were killers, monsters. He had a responsibility to put them down. They'd just keep killing.

They wanted to kill _Sammy_.

Dean isn't a killer, not like them. But he'd never shied away from any necessity.

They wanted to hurt Sammy, to take him away forever. So Dean paced the sick-fuck halls silently, planning a little murder of his own.


	111. Brotherhood

**Title**: Brotherhood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Bloodlust"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 550

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

For the first time in your life, you look at him and do not recognize him. You do not know him. You have no idea what he'll do.

Blood splatters on his face and he scares you. This is your brother the hunter, your brother the killer, the dangerous man others see—but never before have you gazed upon him in quite this way. Never before have you seen him from the outside; always, you've been with him, sheltered from the storm.

But now your eyes are open. Now you see. His rage and pain have always been leashed, controlled. But now he's floundering, lost in a sea of uncertainty and despair.

You and Dad were his world. And now half the foundation of his life is gone, stolen from beneath him. Now he's lashing out, channeling everything into killing, into making something _pay_.

For the first time, perhaps, you see _him_. He is not just your big brother, the boy who held you on his lap and hugged you when you skinned your knee, the boy who played basketball with you and let you win, the man who let you go when you said it was time—he is not just your big brother. He is Dad's weapon, Dad's soldier—and Dad is _gone_.

For twenty-three years you have been blind. But now you see.

Blood splatters on his face and he looks over, expression weary, eyes masked. You don't have the words to make anything better so you say nothing.

You see him now. Your eyes are open.

Blood splatters on his face and you _are_ frightened. But not _of_ him, not of him and never again _of_ him. You are terrified he'll lose his way and be taken from you like everyone else.

He meets your gaze, face weary and eyes hard, daring you to speak. And you resolve with everything in you that you will grab hold of him and never let go.

o0o

The knife is cold on your throat, softly nicking the skin. One small twist of the wrist and you are dead.

He watches, eyes full of fire, and _this_ is the man who would kill or die for you. This is the man who would hurt himself before hurting you, and he will never forgive himself for that punch, even though you already have.

You can imagine his actions if Walker kills you, or even let's Lenore touch you. You can imagine it well, as if it's a vision of what is to come.

His eyes never waver from Walker. His hands never tremble or shake. The gun is steady, sure, and you know he would pull the trigger in less than an aborted heartbeat if he could be sure Walker wouldn't spasm and tear your throat wide open.

And Lenore says no. She forces back her fangs, turns her face away, and says no.

Dean tells you to get her out of there and you almost feel sorry for Walker. But you remember the cold kiss of the blade and your brother's eyes—and with a gasping vampire in your arms, pity is far from your mind.


	112. newborn hope, unjaded

**Title**: newborn hope, unjaded

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Wait" by Sarah Mclachlan.

**Warnings**: AU in a major way

**Pairings**: mostly gen, with a hint of underaged non-con slash

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 400

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: In a different world, Dean is killed by a wendigo when he's seventeen and Sam leads a demon army ten years later.

* * *

It wasn't Dean's first hunt, or even his tenth. He'd gone on plenty of hunts with Dad, each more dangerous than the one before. This was just another, in a long line.

It was also his last.

o0o

John never forgave himself, and doubted Mary did, either. He knew for fact that Sam didn't, never ever would.

Dean was only seventeen when John led him to his death, a baby, just a boy. So young. John drowned his pain and self-loathing in alcohol, with no Dean to pull him out this time. He couldn't even bear to look at Sammy, didn't think himself worthy.

He'd lost Sam's big brother. He'd failed his sons, both of them.

o0o

Sam kept to himself for the few months it took Dad to die. He didn't speak, barely ate, just sat staring at the floor or the walls or the sky.

After Dad died, Sam was put in a home and just didn't care about anything anymore.

o0o

When the yellow-eyed shadow showed up in his dreams, Sam didn't even notice, at first. When it whispered at him to do things, terrible things, he resisted, a bit, but it all seemed so easy, so harmless.

Mr. Jack had been touching him, so it was no great loss when Sam killed him. Ms. Rose, Mr. Jack's wife, had looked the other way for years before Sam was sent to them—no telling how many kids she'd damned with her negligence. Sam killed her, too.

The shadow was happy with him, proud of him, promised him great things. The shadow only ever asked him for things that weren't too hard, that helped people… _Punish the guilty, _the shadow said. _Protect the innocent. _

Sam was moved to another home; those parents needed punishing, too. Sam was sent to a hospital, just until the authorities figured out what was wrong with him; the doctor was mean, so Sam dealt with him.

_You don't need adults anymore, Sam, _the shadow told him. _Come home with me_.

So Sam did.

o0o

Ten years after Dean died—and the pain still ached in what was left of Sam's soul—Sam stepped out of Hell.

At his back stood his father's hordes, all ready and willing to take on the world. Sam stared out over the landscape, studying where he once lived.

"Get 'em," he said, and Father's army streamed around him, with loud, echoing howls.


	113. Tho' much is taken, much abides

**Title**: Tho' much is taken, much abides

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Ulysses" by Alfred Tennyson.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "All Hell Breaks Loose"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 175

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it will burn him to ash._

_Sam's sworn to save him, but he's sworn to save Sammy, and they can't both make it out alive. Sometimes, he thinks that's the way they've always wanted it._

_They've been together for so long, now, even when separated by years and a continent—he always felt Sam just over the next rise, down the next road. Sam was always waiting._

_He's still waiting, Dean knows, waiting to save Dean from the deal and the demon and Hell's roaring, scorching flames._

_But Dean can't afford to let Sam save him—not if it damns Sam in his place._

_And it will, that Dean knows. The demon will not let him go easily, and Sam is a prize… Dean's already lost too much to the darkness. He won't let it take Sammy, too._

_He won't. _

_There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and Dean will welcome the burn if only it guarantees Sam admittance into Heaven. _


	114. sclerenchyma

**Title**: sclerenchyma

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. All quotes from episodes.

**Warnings**: spoilers for 4.2

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 525

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: the title equals "A supportive tissue of vascular plants, consisting of thick-walled, usually lignified cells. Sclerenchyma cells normally die upon reaching maturity but continue to fulfill their structural purpose in the plant."

* * *

You gave your word—you remember that much. You begged to be saved, and it didn't matter who did the saving.

You wanted Sam, but Sam never came, so you promised yourself away to _him_.

(I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.)

He is cold, unfathomable as the ocean deep. He does not understand you or your words or your actions. He does not understand why you ask questions and demand answers because he's always known.

(We have work for you.)

You gave your word in the Pit. Lilith already had your soul, but what was left of you went to whoever got you out.

You don't remember Hell beyond yearning to be free. You don't remember torment or despair, just a surety of being alone.

You are branded, now. Marked. You gave yourself to him and you always pay your debts.

(Lying's a sin, you know.)

He is what he says he is. He is an angel. Like Gabriel. Like Michael. Like Lucifer, before he Fell.

There is a Devil and there is a God, and you are a pawn on their ancient, epic chessboard.

Why you? You're worried you know the answer to that.

Is there a way out? Out of the web, out of the net, out of the bond of your words?

(Somebody. Anybody. Help me.)

You wanted Sammy, you remember that much. And Sammy never came.

But someone else did.

You've always been a soldier. The war hasn't changed, only the battleground. And the stakes are so much higher.

There is a Devil. Lucifer, Satan, Morning Star, Prince of Darkness. Locked away from the world. And you must stop Lilith from setting him free.

You are not special, not gifted at anything but killing.

So why you? Of all the souls he could have saved, of all the people God could have chosen, why you?

(You know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam.)

He looks at you patiently, your savior. He is a warrior, has been for longer than you can imagine. And he waits for you to comprehend; he waits for you to be ready.

(Just tell me who you are!)

Your brother had a demon. You get an angel. Nothing about this is remotely fair.

Sammy has always believed. Even now, with undeniable proof branded into your skin, you don't.

(We have work for you.)

Why you? There's billions of people and you don't know how many angels, just waiting to be picked by God. It's an honor you've never wanted.

But you owe Castiel. He saved you from Hell, returned you to Sammy.

You look Castiel in the eye and say, "Dad told me once that I might have to kill Sam. You should know here and now that I never will. Not even if your God commands it."

He waits a moment to respond, stepping closer. You stand your ground. "All in its due course, Dean. God will only give you a burden you can bear."

(We have work for you.)

You couldn't kill Sammy for Dad. You won't do it for God.

You gave your word in Hell.

(I lied.)


	115. Prayer for the Prey

**Title**: Prayer for the Prey

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 400

* * *

They offer him a choice: the bitch or the boy. He knows that Sam would have a good chance, if out of the cage. Better than good.

So he tells them to hunt the guy. He knows Sam's better than they are, smarter, stronger—he'll beat 'em. He's got to.

But the leader, Pa Bender—he smirks, teeth yellow and disgusting, and tells his boy to shoot Sam.

Something dark settles on Dean's heart as he looks into Pa Bender's mad brown eyes. And he promises, "If you hurt my brother, I'll kill you, I swear." He puts all of his rage into the words. "I will kill you all!"

Pa Bender laughs as his son walks out, gun in hand. Dean stays silent, tracking Pa and his kids, knowing the truth of his words.

He'll kill them. Even the sick, twisted little girl.

Dean meets Pa Bender's gaze and Pa Bender is the one who looks away. Dean follows the patriarch as the bastard paces, working on the ropes around his arms. If he gets his hands free, he has a chance.

The creepy-ass girl steps near, looks at Dean's face closely, traces his eyebrows with her dirty fingertips.

"Missy!" the brother calls. "Git away from 'im."

She backs up slowly, gaze on Dean. "Can I keep 'em, Daddy?" she asks, going to her father. "He has such pretty eyes."

Dean stretches his lips in the semblance of a grin, baring his teeth. Missy looks up at Pa Bender. "Can I, Daddy?"

Pa reaches down to tangle his fingers in her messy, unwashed hair. "Shore, honey," he says, smiling down at her. "After the boy and bitch are dealt with."

Dean raises his eyes to meet Pa Bender's again. "Hurt my brother," Dean repeats softly, "and I'll kill you."

The brother strides forward and slaps Dean across the face. Dean moves with the hit, ignoring the pain, still grinning.

"He's crazy, Daddy," the son says, turning to look at his family. "Can we hunt 'im?"

Pa Bender nods. "Then Missy'll git his eyes."

Dean shifts his gaze to the son, who's nearly salivating. Sick fuck. He'll be the second to die, Dean decides. After the one out there with Sammy.

There's a gunshot and Dean straightens, rage and fear searing through his blood. He snarls, "I'll kill you," low and vicious, and Pa calls for his son.

No answer.


	116. the sounds of long ago

**Title**: the sounds of long ago

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Still in Saigon," which I neither wrote nor own.

**Warnings**: slight AU for "Born Under A Bad Sign"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It's a tickle in the back of his mind, what happened that week he wasn't in control. Sometimes, the knowledge seems within his grasp, but when he stretches for it, it's gone, danced out of reach. He can see proof of what his body did whenever he looks at Dean—the bruises and cuts on his face, his bandaged and nearly-useless shoulder, the way he flinches when Sam gets too close.

He wants to ask Dean what he did. He _needs_ to know—the ignorance is an ache inside him. But, also, he doesn't _want_ to know. If he knows, he'll know just how weak he really is.

That week is a blank in his mind. An emptiness in his awareness of the world. It feels like he slept through it, though his body is tired.

Apparently, demons don't need sleep. He doubts Meg—what-the-fuck-_ever_—took the time for a nap between all her—its—actions.

His voice echoes in a few of his dreams, in the nights just after—_you know you can't save your brother._ It's not his inflection on the words, and it's a clue—but he can't ask. He _can't_. He's too frightened of the knowledge.


	117. steel's kiss and satin's touch

**Title**: steel's kiss and satin's touch

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Lazarus Rising"; AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 730

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

He doesn't remember Hell. He remembers dying, the pain and the fear. He remembers waking in a box beneath half a foot of dirt. But what came in-between—a blank.

You're thankful for that.

o0o

_Tell us, Lord_, your demons whisper. _What next?_

_Find me Lilith_, you command. You've been saying the same thing for three months, ever since you embraced Azazel's curse.

They hurry away, like they have every night, but another approaches you. Ruby in her newest body hovers at your shoulder.

_Leave us,_ you tell her. _Go make sure Dean is safe_.

With a pout, she goes. You watch as the stranger comes ever closer, and then you realize it is no stranger at all.

o0o

No demon would bargain with you. The devil's gate wouldn't open. You had power and will, anger and despair, but none of it mattered. Nothing worked, and Dean's body rotted in the ground because you refused to burn him.

_You are Samuel_, a deep voice said two months after. _Samuel, he who is Azazel's chosen_.

_I am,_ you responded, raising your head from a tablet older than Christianity.

A shadow manifested before you. _You seek to reclaim your brother from the Pit._

_I do, _you said. _And I will._

_If you swear to aid me in a single endeavor, Samuel_, the shadow promised, _I will return your brother to his body, healed and whole, with no memory of what he suffered Below._

_Who are you?_ you demanded, hope causing you to be curt.

_My name is unimportant. I can do what I say._

You'd tried everything else and nothing worked. So you agreed.

o0o

_I kept my word, Samuel,_ the shadow says.

_Yes_, you reply_. So you have. What do you ask in return? What endeavor do you want my help with?_

_I have been a warrior for longer than this planet has existed, Samuel. Make me a general in your army. _The shadow coalesces into a masculine form. _I am weary of the politics that plague Above. I tire of trumpets and pearls._

You stare at him, the shadow who gave you back your brother. _You told Dean the Lord had work for him._

_So you do, Samuel._

You throw back your head in a laugh. _Very well, Castiel_, you say. _Destroy Ruby for me and you can take her place._

He nods and fades away.

o0o

_Tell us, Lord,_ your demons whisper, begging at your feet. _What next?_

_Seek out those receptive to our cause,_ you say. _No matter what title they have or what form they wear._ You watch them stream away, filling the sky with black wings only you can see.

_And I, Lord?_ Castiel asks, standing at your left.

_Go to Dean_, you command. _Watch over him, keep him safe. Lilith still wants him._

He nods and goes.

o0o

Alone, you sink to the ground, loosening your muscles. Closing your eyes, you center yourself.

Lilith is still free and that cannot be allowed. Ruby told you that you wouldn't be able to track her, but Castiel said you could.

_Lilith was one of the first of His creations_, Castiel murmured, watching Dean watch you, invisible to all mortal eyes. _That charlatan whose place I took could never track her, and so wouldn't know you could_.

Dean's gaze flicked to Castiel in the corner, then shook himself and went back to pretending to watch Oprah.

_Your brother is special, Lord_, Castiel said.

_I know_, you replied. _And until the war actually starts, you will keep him safe._

_As you will it,_ he said, and you knew it was good.

o0o

You hunt Lilith, placate Dean, avoid Bobby, and command a force of demons. Slowly, steadily, that force grows, swelled by vampires and werewolves, ghouls and rakshasas—everything you've ever hunted and more.

It is no wonder when a handful of angels join you. Castiel greets them by name.

Your mark is on them all.

o0o

A year to the day Castiel gave you back Dean, four of your fallen bring you Lilith. She is diminished in both presence and power, and before your army, you completely destroy her.

They all roar and howl, and the war will soon begin.

o0o

_Tell us, Lord,_ your acolytes and soldiers whisper. _What next?_

Your gaze turns skyward and you smile.

On your left, Castiel's wings flare in preparation.

On your right, Dean says, _Christ is mine_.


	118. Killer

**Title**: Killer

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 510

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

He killed a man last night.

It felt good. Better than good. Orgasmic. It felt like vindication. Salvation.

He'd say redemption, but he has nothing to be redeemed for.

Perhaps it's good he feels guilt. Not for the killing, but for what's happened since. Sadness. Devastation. Pain, unending and raw.

Killing didn't bother him, not in the slightest. But it was the catalyst and now he can't escape.

Now he can't escape. A part of him doesn't want to. Knows he deserves the pain in his soul, the blood that just keeps flowing. A part of him, the part that misses his old life, won't let him forget.

He killed a man last night. He tore a man limb from limb, ripped him open and laughed when blood splattered on the wall. Pulled out the intestines and organs, juggled the heart, the liver, and the gallbladder.

Anything has the potential to become a monster. He knows that well.

He killed a man last night. He killed a man and howled with laughter.

He killed a man and his sons and his daughter. He killed them, played with them, deboned them like meat and burned their house down around their pieces.

He has no guilt, regret, or shame for what he did.

He's never shied from killing humans, knew it might become necessary. Evil comes in all forms.

Killing them wasn't necessary. Killing them wasn't justice.

Killing them was revenge.

Killing them was _fun_.

And he'd do it again.

He'd do it again and never blink.

He warned them.

His whole life, he's followed very few rules. But there was one he enforced every day. There was one he never turned aside from, never backed down from, one he followed and engraved into the world—it was simple, flawless, easy.

_No one_ hurts Sammy.

No one at _all_.

Twenty-three years.

He warned them.

He _warned_ them.

They didn't listen. They laughed and broke the rule.

So he killed them without flinching. He killed them all.

And he doesn't regret. He doesn't.

He burns Sammy's corpse, unmarked but for a hole in his heart. He burns Sammy's corpse and he doesn't cry. He burns Sammy's corpse and waits until all the ashes blow away.

He doesn't ask forgiveness. He doesn't ask for absolution. He doesn't say he's sorry.

He has no tears. He has no words. He has nothing but rage. Everything else is swallowed by his rising fury, all the pain and regret and fear and love, everything he's ever felt is consumed by his anger—

He killed Sammy's killers. They paid for their mistake. But there are more out there, other things that deserve to be punished.

He waits until Sammy's ashes blow away.

He doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound.

His purpose shines bright before him.

He killed a man last night.

And all he feels is rage that he can't kill that man again.


	119. nomad aflame

**Title**: nomad aflame

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: "All Hell Breaks Loose" never happened

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 425

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam's on his knees cradling his brother's bleeding body, saying _Don_'_t leave me, please, Dean, don_'_t leave me,_ but Dean's heart stutters to a stop anyway... and then something snaps in Sam's head, a switch flips, and the sky begins to burn.

* * *

They watch the sun set, huddled together beneath the sky. No one knows it's the last dusk the world will ever see.

o0o

It began in the southwest, near the Painted Desert. For awhile, no one knew why. But slowly the pieces fit all together—by then, though, it was far too late.

By the time the truth came out, Dean Winchester was dead and the sky afire.

o0o

_Samuel Winchester_, everyone always said, _such a lovely boy. Such a great future ahead of him. He'll go far. _

Nobody ever said those things about his brother. They figured he'd end up in prison, or get himself killed young.

Sam sure did have a destiny. And Dean died before he ever turned thirty.

o0o

Dean's death was an accident. The shot was meant for Sam. Gordon Walker convinced some other hunters that Sam needed to be put down for the good of the world.

Dean had spent the better part of twenty-nine years protecting Sam. He didn't care about Sam's powers or the fate Old Yellow-Eye spouted off about. Taking that bullet was his first, second, and third nature.

He died swiftly, with no pain. And Sam, after twenty-five years of having a brother always there, was left alone.

Gordon Walker and his five followers died screaming, the flesh peeling itself from their bones.

And the sky began to burn.

o0o

Sam has no friends. When Bobby refused to give the Winchesters up, Gordon killed him. Pastor Jim and Caleb were long dead. Joshua and Ellen and Jefferson had families of their own to take care of.

After Gordon, hunters kept coming after him. He seared them all to ash. He didn't hesitate or flinch, and he didn't regret. Regret died with Dean.

o0o

Dean is dead. Sam can't find him anywhere. He keeps looking, but Dean is gone.

Sam hopes, when he's lucid, that Dean's with Mom and Dad. That they're a family again. It's all Dean ever wanted.

o0o

It started in the southwest United States. And it spread, up and down the continent, engulfing North America. But it didn't stop. Within weeks, the western hemisphere was a wasteland. No one could explain why or how. By the time a month had passed, Europe and Asia were desert, too.

Humans died by the bucketloads. Race, religion, and age didn't matter.

And through it all, the sky continually burned.

o0o

The sun never rises or sets. It can't be seen through the flames. Soon, there is no one to look for it, anyway. And Sam wanders the US, always searching for Dean.


	120. Brother

**Title**: Brother

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Bloodlust"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:290

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

He wouldn't be the first man you've killed.

And, if you pull the trigger, he won't be the last.

You've come terms with it. Came to terms with your morals and your stand long ago, when you first realized humans could be just as evil as anything else.

Sam's finally learning that, and you hate it. Hate that, one day, the positions will be reversed and he'll have to knowingly pick.

You or someone else, someone innocent or guilty, and it won't matter which. It'll destroy parts of that little boy you still see in him, making that choice.

But he'll make it. Without blinking, without hesitation. You know he'll make it and if he'll regret, he won't let it show.

That decision in Nebraska never bothered him as much as it bothered you.

It's really simple, when it's all boiled down. Dad may not have intended things to be quite this way, but by the time he noticed it was too late.

It'd been too late since you were four.

And it seems no one else is quick enough to learn.

He is yours. And you are his. Intertwined, now, too deep to ever be undone. He's back, forever, and you'll do anything to keep him safe.

Anything. Everything.

From the moment Walker pointed that knife at Sammy, he'd made your shit-list. From the moment he put that damned knife to Sammy's neck, you knew you'd feel less guilt than you felt for anything you'd ever killed before.

And he says Sammy would already be on the floor.


	121. Smile

**Title**: Smile

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 800

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

If he thought it'd get him anywhere, he might actually beg. Actually break down and plead, fall to his knees and weep for mercy, for pity, for a scrap of anything.

But all they'd do is laugh.

It's been three months since he's seen his brother, since Dean went to find keys.

Kathleen was taken a few days later. He still hears her screams in his nightmares.

It took a week before he ate the food they gave and he could only force down a few bites. He tries not to think of what it was.

The cage isn't big enough for him to stretch, much less exercise, but he does his best. He _will_ escape. They _will_ fuck-up. And once he's out…

He spends the days fantasizing about what he'll do to them. What price he'll make them pay.

He spends the nights having mini-horror movies in his head about what happened to Dean.

o0o

When the chance comes, he almost misses it.

The latch catches too soon, the gate doesn't shut all the way. Only a small space between closed and open, but for John Winchester's son, it's enough.

He waits until dark, until he can see the moon high in the sky out the window, and then he moves.

o0o

He's seen four different people—one old man, two middle-aged men, and a young girl. He's discerned their names: Pa, Jarrod, Lee, and Missy. A family.

He loathes them with every fiber of his being.

He steals into the house, takes in everything with a glance.

Old furniture, bones, weapons scattered about.

Sam almost smiles.

He picks out a knife that looks sharp, that gleams in the pale moonlight. He tests it on his thumb; the skin breaks easily. He grabs another, larger knife, and ghosts through the house, down a hall.

The first bedroom he comes to holds one of the younger men; _Jarrod_, his mind supplies.

Silently, he pads to the bed and sticks the larger knife through Jarrod's right eye socket, shoves it down till the hilt hits bone. He uses the sharper knife to slit Jarrod's throat from ear to ear.

Sam slowly eases the knife out and exits, continuing till he hits another room. In this one, Lee sleeps. Sam does the same thing, except this time it's the left eye and he slits the throat form the other direction.

The next room has the father. But Sam has special plans for him, so he leaves without doing anything.

Finally, he finds the little girl. He slits her throat without a qualm.

After, he goes to the kitchen. Sees the evidence of their fucked-upness everywhere he looks. He locates matches and then heads back to Pa's room with twenty feet of rope. First he ties the hands and when Pa wakes up fighting, knocks him back out. Then the feet, and he drags Pa from the house, tosses him on the yard.

He starts the fire in the living room and waits in the yard with Pa for the son of a bitch to wake up.

Oddly enough, Sam doesn't feel better. Doesn't feel satisfaction. Doesn't feel anything but numb.

o0o

When Pa wakes, Sam greets him with a smile. His first words since Kathleen died are, "Your children have paid the price for their mistakes."

Pa gazes at the remains of his home with a slack face and horrified eyes.

Sam's still smiling.

He smiles when he shoots Pa in the left foot, right foot, both kneecaps, left hand, right hand, both elbows. He smiles when he cuts off Pa's manhood and both ears. He smiles when he slices Pa's tongue down the middle and knocks out his teeth.

Pa screams and sobs and whimpers. But all Sam hears is Dean's voice, whispering in the back of his head, _Good job, Sammy._

o0o

Sam salts and burns Pa's body. He watches till the fire fizzles out and he starts walking. He finds the cars and hot-wires one.

He smells like blood and ash. Like death. All he tastes is bile. He's still numb.

It's been three months since Dean found him. But Dean is murmuring in his mind, over and over, _I'm proud, Sammy. You did good, kid. _

He drives the car till he runs out of gas. He hasn't showered, hasn't cleaned up. He hasn't eaten or drunk anything.

He has the sharp knife resting shotgun and skin that parts beneath the blade.

The metal is cold, the pain fleeting. Dean says in his ear, _Welcome, little brother. Me and Jess and Mom've been waiting for you. _

Sam dies with a smile.


	122. from whence deep thunders roar

**Title**: from whence deep thunders roar

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for 4.7; slight AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean tried to tell him, but Sam just couldn't understand. His whole life, ever since he first met Pastor Jim, Sam had prayed. He'd asked God for help, to keep Dad and Dean safe, to get big enough to help on hunts. Recently, he'd asked God for Dean to be saved from the Pit, to be let out of his deal.

After Lilith's hounds tore Dean apart, Sam prayed for a way to rescue him.

An angel of the Lord pulled Dean out and Sam thought his prayers had been answered.

Dean acted like he'd never left, like those four months didn't happen. He slept less and he never talked about Hell, except to say he didn't remember. He worked himself into exhaustion before sleeping, and it was more like a succession of cat-napes than true rest.

Sam prayed for guidance and then Dean told him the angel had said he must be stopped. Sam didn't know what he'd done wrong—yes, he used Azazel's curse, but only to destroy demons. Only to search for a way to save Dean.

Dean seemed so young, asking why God would command him to stop Sam.

Sam had no answer. He looked at Dean and prayed again for guidance. God did not reply, sent Sam no instructions.

And now these angels talk of destroying a town, killing a thousand innocent souls on orders from their just God. Dean gets right in Castiel's face, then strides to Uriel—he tells them what will be and they fall in line.

Sam still believes in God—but he can't pray anymore. After meeting two angels, he doesn't see himself praying ever again. They are cold, Castiel and Uriel, hard. They have no compassion, no mercy.

"Don't let them get to you," Dean says. "Maybe God doesn't even like 'em."

Sam smiles a little. Dean is trying, like he always has, to lift Sam's spirits.

Azazel's curse whispers, _We can kill them. We can utterly destroy them. They fear us. They know our strength._

Sam is certain he has control over the power, and that they might need it to stop the demon, the breaking of the Seal, the destruction of the town.

"Dean," he says softly. "We may need more than the knife."

Dean shakes his head. "No, Sammy."

Sam lets it go; he doesn't want to fight Dean on this. The angels' words are still echoing in Dean's ears.

_They fear us,_ the power purrs. _Even he, our brother—he is not sure_.

Sam shoves it back, into the deep, dark of his mind. It howls with laughter and Sam turns away. He focuses on Dean, brings his attention to Dean's voice and Dean's breath.

Dean's alive. He's here. God saved him, returned him to Sam, even if only to stop him. Dean's alive and nothing else matters.

_Ours_, Azazel's curse mutters. _No one can take him. Never again. Ours._

Listening to Dean mumble about fluffy wings and high-horses, Sam murmurs, _You got that right_.


	123. I give not Heaven for lost

**Title**: I give not Heaven for lost

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for 4.7; slight AU?

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Uriel growls that he'll turn Sam to dust, but Sam listens to the tone, not the words.

There is fear in Uriel's stolen face. He hides it well, but Sam still sees it.

Sam wants to smile. This angel is no better than any demon Sam has ever destroyed. The power itches to explode out, to get rid of this posturing fool.

He decides not to because such an act could only be taken as a declaration of war, and Sam still isn't sure which side Dean will be on.

Dean went to Hell for Sammy, and that just isn't who Sam is anymore.

_One command_, Uriel growls, _and I'll destroy you_.

Sam just looks at him. All he sees is another kind of demon and those are no longer a hardship.

Azazel's taint cackles.


	124. Tiger Cub

**Title**: Tiger Cub

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 575

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Sam thinks of Dean, he pictures a tiger, muscles rippling, stalking through the brush. Tigers have always been his favorite animal, and he hates seeing them in the zoo—caged, lost, broken, away from freedom and the hunt.

Seeing Dean is like that now, and Jess has given up comforting him.

o0o

"Sam," Dad says through the line, "we can't… I think it's time to let him go."

"No." Sam's voice is harsh and cold and Jess later tells her sister she heard thunder in his tone. "You may have washed your hands of him, but I'm not giving up." He slams the phone down and doesn't speak to his father for twelve years.

o0o

Jess tucks in Mary and Deanie, kisses their foreheads, wonders how it's come to this. That night Dean came for Sam, the night he kissed her cheek goodbye, it was final—she could tell, had the sign from the moment she saw them together.

Sam had spoken of Dean, but she couldn't comprehend until she laid eyes on him in person.

She could tell they belonged together, and knew—_knew_—he would never come back to her.

But he did. Dean dropped him off, drove away, and Sam went to the interview, aced it, was on the way to his dreams.

They were so happy… and all it fell apart so quickly…

o0o

When Sam thinks of Dean, he remembers stories whispered on the night air and sparring with sticks and lessons on how to shoot. When Sam thinks of Dean, he sees blood and sweat and a devil-may-care grin. When Sam thinks of Dean, he imagines a tiger at the prime of his life, stalking through the forest, on the hunt.

When Sam thinks of Dean, he hears his father's voice in his ear.

_Sammy… Dean's been hurt, real bad. He needs you._

When Sam thinks of Dean, he feels the tears course down his face.

o0o

When Sam remembers John, he thinks of strong hands and a deep voice, of rare smiles and even rarer hugs. When Sam imagines John, he sees a broken man, weeping over the prone form of his firstborn; he hears John say, _Goodbye_ and sees him not look back as he walks away.

When Sam thinks of his father, he feels fury that could easily turn to hate.

o0o

Jess is very glad they didn't name their son John.

Sam regrets they named him Dean—every time he thinks of his son, or sees him, or hears his name, he remembers the man his brother used to be.

o0o

Jess tells Mary not to worry, Daddy'll be home soon. She tells Deanie to play quieter, Daddy's sleeping.

She tells Sam she understands, but he needs to be home more, the kids miss him. She tells him she loves him, and no, Dean isn't a strain on their finances. She tells him dinner is ready and it's time to eat.

With every breath she tells him it's alright, but she thinks he quit listening long ago.


	125. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

**Title**: Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for pilot, slight non-con

**Pairings**: um... noneish

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 440

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Sometimes, he can ignore the voices. Replace them with memories. If he pretends long enough... ah, but who is he kidding?

He knows. _They_ know. And he can't ever unknow. Denial is easy but not strong enough to truly protect him.

Sometimes, even as he ignores _them_, the stench of fire fills the air around him and he inhales it with a grimace.

o0o

"You did your best," _they_ say as one. "And we commend you for that."

He closes his eyes and turns away, rolls over and wraps his arms about himself. He doesn't acknowledge _them_ and he doesn't react. When a hand trails along his bare back, he doesn't flinch.

"Such a brave boy," _they_ murmur. "We cannot wait until you are ours."

Even in his mind, he doesn't think a response. He can't handle the disappointment of being wrong anymore.

o0o

How long it's been, he doesn't know. Doesn't wonder.

Long enough.

He bets he lost his mind somewhere along the way. Only him and _them_ and fire and fear--only helplessness and impotent fury.

All the anger in the world cannot help him. Not while he's alone. He can't block out _their_ voices for more than a heartbeat, and he can't hear his brother's voice at all.

His memories are fading.

o0o

"It is useless," _they_ say. "You are weakening, day by day. If you become ours, you will never again be weak."

He hasn't spoken in so long, he doubts he even has a voice anymore.

He hasn't spoken since that November night. Fire roars in his memory and Jessica screams his name. Dean shudders and falls, eyes wide with disbelief.

He can't be sure he wasn't responsible. He can't be sure it wasn't his fault. He just can't remember... and that hurts most of all.

o0o

"You are ours, lovely boy," _they_ whisper. A hand caresses his face and he tightly closes his eyes. "Can you not feel the fire in your blood?"

_Dean_, he thinks with a sob, _why haven't you saved me?_

He hears _their_ laughter, deep and long. "He will never come for you, child." Lips press against his skin. "You saw to that in November."

And he just can't be sure.


	126. December

**Title**: December

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 675

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

The phone rings. He doesn't answer.

Later, he'll regret that. He'll regret that a whole lot.

o0o

After he drags himself out of bed, brushes his teeth, showers off the worst of the goo and washes his hair, throws on some dirty clothes, packs his bags, and laces up his boots, he checks his phone.

A dozen missed calls. Half a dozen messages. All the same number, all the same voice.

He doesn't listen or call back.

Later, he'll regret that, too.

o0o

He's in the middle of a hunt, the most important of his life. He's been chasing this thing for twenty-plus years, and it's all he cares about. He wants to end it, so he can finally rest. Rest and sleep a deep, comforting sleep, for the first time in over two decades.

It isn't that much to ask.

But it's still too much.

o0o

The phone rings. It's shrill and loud and chases away the dream-memory of her golden hair and her laughing hazel eyes and her soft hands.

The phone rings, shaking and shrieking on the floor where he dropped it before falling into bed, and he tries to ignore it.

Later, he'll hate himself for that.

Later, he'll hate himself for a lot of things.

o0o

It's three days before he checks the phone again. Over a hundred missed calls, thirty-something messages.

Desperation hangs in the air, almost thick enough to taste.

He's in the middle of a hunt and he doesn't have the time.

o0o

It's December before he finally calls Sammy back.

It's December and the demon has gone back to ground. He searches and hunts, but there's nothing.

It's December and he calls Sammy without listening to any of the messages he deleted.

It's December and he's in Maine, and outside it's snowing.

It's December and it's too late and Sam's voice is hard through the phone. Cold. Angry and accusing.

It's December and he's answered the phone a month too late.

o0o

"What happened?" he whispers.

"**Now** you wanna know?" Sam scoffs.

"Please, Sammy." It's the closest he's ever come to begging.

"It was just like Mom," Sam says, voice low. Dangerous. Old. "It was just like Mom, and I carried myself out this time because he told me to."

"Sammy," he tries, but Sam cuts him off.

"I thought, because you were our father, that you should know. Deserved, **needed** to know." Sam laughs, a desperate, heartbreaking sound, and John recoils from it.

"You don't deserve anything, you bastard," his only son snarls. "Dean's dead because you left him without word and he came to me. I've had a **month** and I've finally pieced it all together."

He closes his eyes, hand tightening on the phone. "Sammy…"

"Goodbye, John," Sam says.

And there is only silence.

o0o

All he has left is the hunt. But his prey has vanished.

His quest is pointless, now. No matter what he does or where it ends, a reason will never be found.

The demon killed his wife. Killed his son. And now has returned to where it came from.

Sam is right to blame him, he knows. Sam is right about everything.

He dials his son, his only remaining child, but Sam never answers.


	127. with wearied wings, and willing feet

**Title**: wearied wings, and willing feet

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 855

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Castiel is a disapproving presence at his back. _He would not want this_, the angel says.

Sam snarls, _No shit, Sherlock._ He glares over his shoulders. _Make yourself useful or go away._

Castiel's expression is sad. _I am here to offer you aid, Sam. That is something he would want._

Sam rolls his eyes, focusing back on the spell. He found it in one of Bobby's ancient scrolls, a powerful magic that requires a blood sacrifice. It will cost a great deal and he knows what the price will be—but Lilith stole Dean in the night while Sam was away.

_He will be angry,_ Castiel says, coming around to stand in front of Sam.

Sam looks up at him, meeting Castiel's eyes. _But he'll be back._

Castiel nods. _Yes. He will be back._

Sam slices his palm, letting blood drip into the chalice made of human bone. _I need a life, _he says.

Castiel sighs_. I will not be forgiven. _

Standing, Sam offers Castiel the knife, pure silver, sharpened by an ebony stone. _It's the only way to save Dean._

Castiel reaches out and lightly grips the smooth ivory handle. _Yes_, the angel whispers.

Sam watches, unflinching, as the he shoves the dagger into his body's chest, all the way to the hilt.

_Forgive me, Father_, Castiel murmurs and leaves the human body. The man, leaking blood, falls to the floor, eyes unseeing. Sam leans over and pulls the dagger out, turning back to the chalice.

Castiel floats, a pale fog, before solidifying again into a human-like form. _And now?_ he asks.

Sam ignores him, murmuring a demonic chant older than human civilization. The language rolls off his tongue with ease. He kneels again, shoving a finger into the corpse's chest. Still murmuring, he draws out some blood. Sam finishes the incantation and waits, Castiel at his side.

He waits until dawn. But the summons doesn't bring him Dean, and Sam's eyes flare yellow in rage. He blinks away the golden hue and demands, _Why didn't it work?_

Castiel answers sadly, _Lilith is ancient_.

Sam takes a deep breath, exhales, and turns sharply on his heel. _So be it_, he says. This plan failed. No matter.

_Sam_, Castiel asks. _What is the plan now?_

Sam looks at him. His angelic body is not much different than his human meatsuit. His wings are soot-stained. _So you've Fallen, then?_

Castiel lowers his head. _I killed an innocent man, at the behest of an abomination._

Sam barks a laugh. _You could've just said yes._

He pulls another scroll out of the pile on Bobby's desk. _I'll need a virgin_, he tells Castiel. _Preferably male, but it doesn't really matter_.

Castiel sucks in a breath, his wings flaring out. _What else does this plan require?_ His voice is shaky.

Sam pauses, spine straightening as he turns to look Castiel in his bright, unfathomable eyes. _I could tell you_, he says_. I could tell you every single horrific, disgusting thing I need to do to get Dean back. Would it keep you from doing what I request?_

Castiel doesn't reply and Sam continues, _I could charge Lilith's frontlines. It'd destroy a good chunk of North America and kill a few hundred million people, but that's no loss, right? It might even tear open a few hellgates, letting out the hordes. Would that be better? _

Castiel flinches, looking away. Sam sighs. _I've weighed all the options. This is the best way._

Closing his eyes, Castiel clasps his wings to his back. Softly, he asks_, Does age matter?_

Sam shakes his head. _It won't really affect the spell, but after puberty would be best._

_When is he needed by?_

Sam thinks for a moment. _Dusk, tomorrow_.

Castiel slowly walks to the door. Sam calls, _Dean doesn't need to know you helped. I'll accept full responsibility._

The newly-fallen angel pauses. _Thank you, Sam_, he says without turning. _But no. He must know the depth of my devotion._ Castiel glances over his shoulder. _I Fell for him._

_He will forgive us, _Sam assures him. _Dean can't stay angry for long_.

Castiel smiles, infinitely woeful, and leaves.

Sam turns back to the scroll. He has much to prepare.

_He would not want this_, Castiel had said. No, he wouldn't. If Dean knew what his salvation from Lilith will cost, he'd beg Sam to stop.

But he's not here. He's prisoner of the monster that had already tortured him for lifetimes, and Sam will save him.

Ruby taught him the basics and the rest he learned on his own, surpassing his teacher with ease. She'd been the sacrifice for his first attempt.

No, Dean wouldn't like this road at all. Sam doesn't care.

Bobby's body frowns at him from the corner. _Stop looking at me like that_, Sam mutters and one of his oldest friends catches fire.

_You'll forgive me, Dean,_ he says. _You will_. He walks to the kitchen, staring out the window. For a moment, his eyes glow yellow and he looks at a world tinted golden.

He fills a glass with water, drains it down, and goes to clean up his failure.


	128. east of Eden he was cast

**Title**: east of Eden he was cast

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Bruce Springsteen.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks to fairiekween13 for looking this over!

* * *

_We are legion_, they say, black eyes and red eyes and white eyes all in a row. _We are legion but leaderless. We come to you._

_And I should lead you? _he asks, fingers loose around the hilt of Ruby's knife.

_You are our king,_ they say, spread out on the ground before him, gazes adoring. _You are our majesty given flesh, power in a vessel. Lead us. _

_Tell me why I should._ He trails the blade along his jaw_. Tell me why I should give any of you bastards the time of day._

Black eyes, red eyes, white eyes, all in a row, begging and baying and belly-up. _Lead us, lord and savior. You are ours and we are yours—king and majesty and eternal. Lead us from here and into the world, into the highest domain. _

_Hmm…_ He stares down at them, letting the knife dangle. _Tempting_.

_Please_, they say_. You and you alone—power and strength and perfection. Please. _

He lets the knife fall to the ground and stands tall, glaring out over them, black and red and white. _And if I lead you?_ he demands. _What do I get?_

One streams to the forefront, black-eyed and excited_. I know where they took your brother. I can show you the way. _

He nods, reaching out to twirl a finger in its smoke. It giggles, dancing in place.

_Take me there,_ he says. _And I'll be your king._

They howl in jubilation, black and red and white. _Our king, our king_, they chant. _Ours_.

He follows the eager little black-eyed demon and the hordes follow him_. I saw them_, it calls over its shoulder_. I saw them take him away. I recognized his glow. _

_Ours, ours, our king,_ the rest whisper to each other. _Finally, to battle. To war and to Heaven! _

He says nothing, power swirling in his blood, magics darker and older than time. They pass mountains and canyons, going deeper into the abyss.

_They took him through there_, the demon says, pointing to a stairway. _Up and up_.

_I know the way_, he muses. _I walked it before, until one of you pulled me back down_.

_You are our king?_ the little demon asks, spinning and whirling_. _

_Yes, _he says, caressing it gently. _I am your king. Eternally your lord, as soon as I've taken back my brother from those self-righteous sons of bitches. _

_We will help you!_ they shriek, an unholy choir rising around him. _You are ours and we are yours, and we will follow you. _

_Well then_, he says, gazing out over them, black eyes and red eyes and white eyes staring back in awe. _Let's go_.

He leads them up the stairs, his hordes, what his destiny had always been—king, majesty, raw power given flesh. He leads them up the stairs, a pathway no demon has walked in millennia.

It feels like a homecoming, and he smiles darkly, eyes shining golden. It will be homecoming, soon as he's rescued Dean.


	129. fireflies are the only light in paradise

**Title**: fireflies are the only light in Paradise

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Nickelback

**Warnings**: spoilers for 4.9

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 110

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He tries to pull the demon out of the man and it's like Samhain all over again, except worse—this demon, whoever it is, shrugs him off like a bug and tosses him aside.

He rolls down the stairs, blacking out for a moment. Once he comes to, he forces himself back up, determined to exorcise that demonic bastard. Ruby's knife is on the floor right inside the door; he grabs it and hurries to where the demon is beating Dean. Dean isn't even fighting, just hanging limply in the demon's grasp.

The sight sends fury through him and Sam jams the knife into the demon's meatsuit, all the way to the hilt.


	130. in the heart of Hell to work in fire

**Title**: in the heart of Hell to work in fire

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton

**Warnings**: future!fic; disturbing; gore; probably AU

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 870

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

The last seal shatters when a little girl named Rosie is sacrificed on an altar of infant bone.

In Heaven, the Father shudders, closing His eyes. In Hell, Lilith smiles, her hordes howling in triumph.

On Earth, one brother stares at the other, horror rising with bile in his gut. "What have you done?" he whispers, shivering in fear.

(Something stirs. Everything changes.)

Rosie's body cools in pieces. Flames rise from the altar, her blood painting bone ruby red. Her cries still echo, her pleas.

"What have you done?" one brother repeats, unable to step close, too late to save. "Tell me!"

He turns, eyes golden yellow. "It's why they brought me out of Hell, Sammy," he says. "To awaken you."

Castiel looks at Sam from his place at Dean's right hand and says, "Awaken, MorningStar. The world is waiting."

(Something screams and spirals.)

Sam flinches and doubles over in pain. "What?" he gasps out, tears pricking in his eyes.

"You were bound, Liege," Castiel says while Dean supports Sam's convulsing body. "By Uriel and Ananchel and Michael."

Dean sinks to the ground, letting Sam's trembling body rest against him. He cards his fingers in Sam's sweat-soaked hair, leaving dried flakes of blood. "I could've killed you, Sammy," he whispers conspiratorially. "That's why God wanted me out. I could kill you, or…" He lets his voice trail off, grinning like a kid with an exciting secret.

"Only your own blood can destroy you, Sammael, my King. Heaven ordered me to pull your brother from the Pit, to save you or stop you."

Sam glares up at Castiel, his chest heaving and stomach roiling. It feels like every drop of blood in his veins is boiling. "You did this to him." His voice is raw, streaked with pain.

Castiel in his true form, a silvery light, beams down at him. "I am your most loyal servant, MorningStar. I have kept my place in Heaven to better serve you."

Dean, eyes fading back into hazel, tells him, "We can stay together forever, Sammy. Forever. Isn't that awesome?"

(Something unfurls, spreading dark tendrils across his mind, overwhelming his soul in one fell swoop.)

"Yeah," he mutters, feeling the world fall away. "Awesome."

His eyes close to Dean's smile and Castiel's smug glow.

(Something murmurs _Welcome_ and embraces him, clinging tight.)

The last seal shatters beneath love and obsession and lies, and Lucifer awakens, ready to reclaim the world as his own.

With him comes a fallen angel, cunning enough to fool the Creator for millennia, and a demon-tainted human Raised from the Pit.

Lilith greets him at the Gates of Hell. His eyes are a pure, deep green, Dean at his right and Castiel behind them. "Lucifer!" she howls with glee.

Sammael, the MorningStar, remembers watching her bitch tear his brother apart. He remembers the scent of Dean's blood, of his terror, of his resignation there at the end.

Lilith twins about him, kissing his face and neck, trailing her tongue along his lips.

Dean growls, eyes flashing sunshine yellow, and Lilith's howl turns pained. She burns, soul and power into ash, and Sammael looks out over her hordes.

"I have returned," he announces, voice ringing clear throughout the Pit. "I am the MorningStar." His eyes pierce the demons, rooting them to the spot. "Choose now to follow me or die."

(Samuel Winchester is no more, but the best parts of him still reside in Sammael.)

Dean laughs with joy as the demons kneel. Castiel's smile is satisfied.

In Heaven, the Father and Son weep. Michael bows his head, saying, "Forgive me, Lord. I failed You and the Beast walks free."

The Father does not speak. The Son asks, "Father, what can We do?"

After an eternal moment, the Father says, "Send Ananchel to Dean. Perhaps she can sway him back to Our Light."

In Hell, Dean sits on a throne of martyrs' bones, next to Sammael, the devil of devils, the MorningStar.

"Have I thanked you yet, brother?" Sammael asks, slouched on his throne.

Dean shrugs, giving him a smile. "Wasn't hard, Sammy."

Sammael has found that he likes when Dean uses that nickname. It is an odd feeling. He wants to cherish Dean, to protect him. He believes that is the remains of Sam within him.

"It was either wake you or kill you," Dean continues, reaching out to clasp Sammael on the shoulder. "Wasn't even a choice."

(Sam's soul is buried inside the MorningStar. He sleeps, dreaming of his childhood, dreaming of Dean.)

Castiel sits at Dean's side, his loyalty to his King's brother overwhelming all else. Sammael's relief at this outweighs his annoyance. Castiel still looks pure, as if he'd never Fallen. His eyes stay on Dean, adoring, and Sammael is pleased.

He will consolidate his power before advancing to Heaven. He will reacquaint himself with having a body, having emotions. He will rest here in the warmth of Hell, with his brother.

(He feels the angel drawing close, a little moth to Dean's sun-bright flame. She will try to take him away.

But Dean, glorious and beautiful Dean, will cause her to Fall again.)

"Thank you, Dean," the MorningStar murmurs.

Dean's hands are still red with Rosie's blood.


	131. to sleep and dream no dreams

**Title**: to sleep and dream no dreams

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: somewhat sad

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Wake up, _Sam whispers, fingers clenched tight around Dean's_. I know you're still in there. Wake up. Please, wake up._

It's been three days with no change and Sam hasn't slept at all. He hasn't left the room once. He's answered all the questions and listened to all the medical talk, and he knows that Dean's not coming back.

He knows that. He just doesn't believe it. He can't believe it because Dean is always there. Dean is… _Dean_.

_Wake up_, Sam cries, gripping Dean's hand tight. _Please, Dean. Wake up. C'mon, man. Dean. _

No answer. No movement.

No Dean.


	132. imagine how I looked

**Title**: imagine how I looked when I justed turned fifteen

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Jimmy Wayne.

**Warnings**: takes place pre-pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 175

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Many teachers looked at him and wrote him off--he knows that. He accepts it. He's not gifted like Sammy, and he doesn't want to be. He learned everything of importance from Dad, anyway.

He's the bad boy, still, even at twenty-five. Leather jacket, muscle car, quick fists and quick wit.

Sammy's the good one. He knew it as a boy and he knows it now as a man. Back as a kid, he did the best he could. If it wasn't enough for nosy, uncaring teachers, it wasn't his problem, unless they tried to make trouble.

The older he got, the less that happened.

Laughter from the corner, a table full of college kids. One of them towers above the rest, floppy dark hair bouncing as he shakes his head.

Dean smiles, thinking back. "Happy birthday, little brother," he says, slamming back his glass of whiskey.

Sammy's the good one, and he's got a good thing going here. It's not Dean's place.

He doesn't see Sam's eyes flick his way as he goes.


	133. Apricot leaves blood sprinkled

**Title**: Apricot leaves blood sprinkled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Azazel's daughter visited Dean in Hell, and was his prime tormenter before he caught Alistair's attention. In the early days, while he still had the presence of mind to remember life before, he asked why she hadn't possessed him.

She giggled, a deceptively girlish sound, and placed a hand on his chest, where his amulet would be. "You were protected Above," she said. "Nothing could touch your insides." Her fingers sank into his chest, stroking his heart. "But now all your softness is laid bare before us." He screamed as her talons shredded his heart.

"Now," she said, "we feast."


	134. the left hand sings

**Title**: the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. title from Richard Siken

**Warnings**: future!fic; slight AU before 4.16

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 275

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: dedicated to oc_pixie

* * *

Sam's never beaten his brother in a physical fight in twenty-five years. He's run rings around Dean with words, but fists against fists, knives, staffs—he's always lost, even when Dean wasn't trying. He's put Dean in the dirt a handful of times, but Dean still took him down, too, and then finished the fight with ease.

"Do you have what it takes?" Ruby asks. "He can stop us, Sam. You know that. It's best for everyone if he just…"

"Shut up," Sam says. He stares down at Dean, in one of his rare naps. He hardly sleeps since he's come back from Hell. "I don't exorcise them to the Pit, do I?" Dean looks weary. Sam glances up to catch Ruby's surprised expression. "The demons," he elaborates. "I'm not sending them back to Hell, I'm killing them."

The knife she gave him, the knife that destroys demons, is in his hand. She wants him to kill Dean. For the good of the world, because he'll try to stop them.

It'll prove he means it, wants to take out all of Hell's top pier if he can kill Dean. What Dean did in Hell… he's not Dean anymore.

Except that he's never been Dean more. Dean's a survivor. He always has been.

"Sam," Ruby hisses. "Your army won't follow you if don't kill him. You know that."

Sam's never once been able to beat Dean, except that one time he was possessed, and Dean wasn't even fighting.

He spins and buries the knife in Ruby's neck, watching dispassionately as she dies.

Dean's his brother. And they'll rule side by side, or he won't rule at all.


	135. a street on earth

**Title**: a street on earth neither heaven nor hell

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "Family Remains"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 510

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Sammy Winchester," the demon croons. "You called?"

"Tell me what you did to Dean." Sam keeps his voice level and calm. His hands are clenched into fists and everything in him screams to rip the demon out, destroy it. But he summoned it here for a reason, because Dean's not talking anymore.

"We broke him." The demon grins, slouching in a satisfied way. "He was strong, your brother. Took lots longer than any of us expected." The demon chuckles. "You know, he cost me a hundred years of paperwork." The demon looks Sam right in the eye. "I was sure he'd find a way out within the first twenty years—or that _someone_ would come for him."

Sam takes a deep breath. He can't kill the demon, not yet. "Tell me," he repeats softly, iron will alone keeping him still.

The demon cocks its host's head. "Will it change anything? Make you look at him in a different way?"

"No." Of that, Sam is sure. After everything they've been through, nothing could ever change them now.

"Then what's it matter what happened in Hell?" It raises the host's brow. "We broke him. We enjoyed it. He reforged himself by hellfire, and could have been the greatest demon since my lord Fell. But he was dragged out, fighting all the way." The demon smirks again, though this time it seems almost gentle. "He didn't want to go, and we didn't want him to. There was a battle, Samuel Winchester. We lost, and Heaven got Dean out."

The demon steps up to the edge of the devil's trap and says, "Heaven got him out, yes, but he's marked by us. He enjoyed everything that happened, and those memories will never go away."

Sam's nails dig crescents into his palm. One last question and then he can kill this bastard. "How long does it take to become a demon?"

The demon laughs. "Your brother," it chortles, "could have been the best, given time." The host's eyes flash black. "He was Alistair's favorite, and Lilith's toy. No one ever leaves unscathed, little boy, and Dean Winchester is no different."

Sam's control snaps and the host coughs out demonsmoke before collapsing. He doesn't even check the pulse as he stalks out.

_Alistair's favorite, and Lilith's toy. _And he himself Azazel's chosen. Sam looks up at the sky, taking a deep breath and exhaling it slowly. A vicious circle of deals, starting with Mom and ending with Dean in Hell. And it would have continued with him, but no demon would deal.

They'd had Dean right where they wanted him. _Your brother could have been the best, given time. _

Sam takes one more breath and with it releases all his doubts. Dean's alive again, saved from Hell by angels. He wasn't there long enough to change. And Alistair is dead, leaving only Lilith. Sam will kill her, soon as he finds her, and then Dean's free.

Dean's free. He's not in Hell and no demon will touch him ever again. Of that, Sam will make damn fucking sure.


	136. I’ll keep walking

**Title**: I'll keep walking towards the sound of your voice

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Richard Siken

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: pre-John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 270

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

John will never forget the first time he saw Mary. He'd just gotten back, was war-torn and weary, so so tired of killing.

He was sitting in the park, eyes closed, listening to the children play, their innocent laughter. He'd been a boy once, but he had blood on his hands now and had become a man all the way the across the world.

He had no idea what to do with his life. School had no interest, never had, even before. He could work at Dad's garage. It'd be simple, easy. Quiet.

He opened his eyes and there she stood, bathed in sunlight. She was talking to another woman, heads bent close, both blonde and smiling. They looked enough alike to be kin. John's breath caught and he _wanted_.

"Mary!" the older blonde laughed. "I can't believe you just said that. Better not let your father hear."

Mary shrugged, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. "I'm not worried about Daddy," she said. "Got him wrapped around my finger." She leaned in, grabbing the other woman's wrist. "We'd better hurry if we want to make it on time, Mom," she said, and John watched them go.

He sat there for hours, soaking in normalcy and basking in sunlight. At dusk he went back to his parents' house and told Dad he'd take the job.

Next afternoon, Mary and an older man came by the garage for a tune-up. John stumbled through a flirtation he could've done a couple of years ago with ease.

But Mary gently flirted back and before she left, she asked him on a date.


	137. thicker than

**Title**: thicker than

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; future!AU

**Pairings**: none stated. Bring your own inferences

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 915

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the MorningStar_

o0o

Sam was born in Spring, early in the morning, just as the sun rose and spread light on the world. His was a quick and easy birth, and he charmed the nurses with his bright eyes.

Dean had been born in Winter, during a midnight snowstorm. He had been silent and so still the doctor thought him dead. His mother nearly died bringing him into the world.

o0o

Azazel always took the firstborn; in their blood lay the power, the skill, the potential he would hone. That night in the nursery, he had no idea Sam was second.

Two children with such strength… Azazel could not fathom it, and then it was too late.

o0o

Sam was a happy baby and an inquisitive boy; he grew into a sure and strong man.

Dean was solemn and stubborn, and always followed the orders he agreed with. He gave his love and loyalty to three people in the world, and one was dead. Then two were dead, and then Dean was the last Winchester standing.

o0o

Sam was frantic, that final year, searching, cajoling, demanding, sure he could find a way out for his brother.

Dean was resigned and didn't get desperate 'til the very end.

o0o

Sam was a leader, someone with a plan, someone with clear-cut goals and a way to get them.

Dean was a soldier, obedient and steady. He wanted someone to follow. He was a vassal in need of a king.

o0o

Sam died in Dean's arms. Dean died before Sam's eyes.

Dean traded himself to bring Sam back. Sam embraced the darkness inside him—and failed.

o0o

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the MorningStar_

o0o

Sam was born in Spring, the time of rebirth and hope. He entered life as the sun warmed the world.

Dean was born in Winter, the dark, frozen time.

o0o

Azazel scoured humanity for a king, and Sam had always been his favorite. Sam the leader, Sam the powerful, Sam the endgame and catalyst in one sack of flesh—but before he was anything else, he was a son. Before he was anything else, Sam had always been a brother. He spent his whole life following Dean. Dean went deeper than demon-blood dripped in his mouth. Dean went deeper than training and abilities and destiny.

Dean went into Death and ripped Sam out, threw him back to Life.

o0o

Lilith tried to break them. Ruby tried to separate them. Azazel tried to kill one and claim the other.

Castiel said, If you don't stop him, we will.

o0o

Sam toddled after Dean, ran after Dean, wanted Dean to chase him to California and say he could make it work.

Dean spent his life curled around Sam, protecting him, feeding him, watching over and loving him. Dean's whole world was Sam.

o0o

Angels and demons and magic and destiny and blood. It always came back to blood, in the end—blood and love and pain. And death. So much death before the final curtain falls.

Azazel, were he not one of the first casualties, might find it amusing; he'd always been a master on the killing-field.

o0o

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the MorningStar_

o0o

Is it a lie, Castiel wonders, if you say the falsehood on orders from a just and righteous God? He cannot reach a conclusion. He cannot find a way to explain that would keep Dean's trust.

Lucifer will walk free when the last Seal breaks. That is what he told Dean, the most fascinating of all God's creations. It was his first lie.

o0o

They hunt together, bleed on each other, share silence and laughter. They have a past of gunpowder and iron, a future of blood and dust. They are brothers in flesh and brothers in spirit, and cannot be untwined from each other.

And they will damn all comers who dare to try.

o0o

Sam was a born leader, so magnetic he could lead men to a cliff and tell them to jump. He charmed and people loved.

Dean could charm for moments, and then people turned away.

o0o

Azazel plotted and planned and planted seeds in hundreds of children over a dozen generations. But his greatest triumph came when he found a little blonde spitfire and tracked her down to bleed in her son.

Sammy, he said over twenty years later. Sammy, my boy, you're the champion.

o0o

They are beaten and bruised and bloodied, but they refuse to bow. They fight and kill, and they've both died. One's been buried and burned in Hell; one can't remember the other side.

They are dangerous and defiant and both sides fear them for what sings in their blood, forged by fire.

o0o

He will be king, Alistair thinks, eyeing the Winchester brothers. King of Hell, destroyer of Earth, pillager of Heaven. It was a mistake to give him such power.

Oh, yes, Alistair laughs, burning in holy light. You made a mistake, my brother, when you favored Sam and left my boy in the cold.

o0o

Sam died. Dean lived.

Dean died. Sam lived.

o0o

_the MorningStar is dead_

o0o

Castiel kneels. Ruby inclines her head before being shoved to her knees. Ananchel destroys Uriel and settles at her lord's back.

Far away on Earth, Missouri Moseley laughs herself hoarse and spreads word of the end.

o0o

They are blood, spirits connected, two halves of one whole. They are two men bound deeper than death, brothers through fire and lead and consecrated iron.

They both are King.

o0o

_long live the MorningStar _


	138. Despair behind, and death before

**Title**: Despair behind, and death before

**Disclaimer**: not my character; just for fun. Title from Donne.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four; takes place during 4.3

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks to fairiekween13 for reading over every version of this.

* * *

He is older than his father, taller and broader. Dad seems so young. It's just _wrong_, Dad being innocent and _Mom_ being a hunter—his worldview is completely tossed upside down. Dad's got no clue what's out there, and Mom… she's not the angel he's always pictured, remembered her as. She's just a girl, rebelling against her parents, wanting out of the life. She's _Sam_, ten years before Sammy even exists.

They're so young. He towers over Dad, practically, and he could break Mom in half. He knows more than both of them put together—Mom may've been hunting from the cradle(and Grandpa sure is one scary bastard), but she's barely eighteen. She's a _kid_. Dad's been to war and come back, but he's still just a boy. He's still shy and awkward, stumbling through a courtship with the woman he'd spent over twenty years getting vengeance for.

Dean can't catch his breath. His parents, his grandparents, Azazel—all twisted together, blood and even more fucking _deals_ with fucking _evil_. Even going thirty-six years into the past, to back before November, isn't enough to escape. Azazel's there, fucking with his family, _killing_ his family… Dean's hands itch for the demon-killing Colt, the shining blade. He's the one that killed Azazel, Mom and Dad's murderer, and now his grandparent's killer, too. Azazel's the one that got Sam killed, which made him responsible for Dean's deal—and he killed Dad twice over. He killed Dad to get Mom's deal, and he killed Dad as part of Dad's debt for Dean's life, and Dean wants to strangle the fucker with his bare hands, to rend him and tear him. Dean learned a lot in Hell, and he really _really_ wants to put it to use almost-forty years in the past but Castiel's hand is warm on his shoulder and he's waking up in _now_.

He didn't change a thing except for the worse.

Dad was so young, so naïve, so hopeful. Mom saw a way out, a way into the life Sam still dreams about sometimes, the life none of them ever seem able to have.

"Why did you even send me back?" he demands. He wants to hurt Castiel like he hurts now, wants to make the angel cry—if angels can cry. He never played with an angel in Hell. Demons can sob oceans, if twisted the right way, and he found hundreds.

Castiel has no meaningful answer. His eyes are sad, unfathomably deep, with knowledge Dean will never be able to grasp. His eyes are holy, God's light shining out of the human vessel—a man who prayed for this. Does he regret it now?

The angel offers platitudes, the words with slightly wrong inflections, and Dean's anger just keeps spiraling. He gets so angry with no reason, and he can't lash out at Sam. Not at Sammy.

"If you don't stop him," Castiel says gently, "we will."

Dean misses the clarity of Hell. Life was so much easier there.


	139. O fairest of creation

**Title**: O fairest of creation, last and best of all God's works

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 666

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Angels are different from demons. They ask before crawling in and walking around as a sack of flesh. They heal the body before leaving. They send the vessel to sleep and play sweet dreams to keep the mind content.

Demons, though, they rape and they pillage, they take what is not offered and give nothing in return. The body is broken when they leave, bloody inside and out. They keep the host awake when they wish, a torment of freedom just out of reach and the knowledge of what their body is doing.

Sam remembers how Azazel's daughter felt, slick and slimy, slithering up in him and making him do things he'd only ever had nightmares about. He remembers—can't forget—how Dean's face broke beneath his fist. How Jo trembled; how Steve Wandell's blood sprayed on his face, coated his hands.

A demon is following him around, coming when he calls, trying to teach him how to use the power deep in his sinew and grooming him to be a king. She lies to him, but she loves him, and he will never trust her because she swore she could show him how to save Dean and Dean still went to Hell.

It took an angel to get him out, when demons and demon-blood-power failed. It took an angel, and now that angel is trying to take Dean.

_It could save him, _Castiel pleads, vessel's eyes wide and innocent.

_It would kill him, _Sam replies. _And I say no_.

Angels are different from demons. They ask permission. And if denied, they just keep asking. They don't take.

_This is foolish_, Uriel snarls, striding up to Sam, glaring at him. _Your brother is the vessel, chosen by God, saved from Hell. We will do what needs to be done, and no little mudmonkey with delusions of grandeur will halt the Lord's will!_

Sam's lips curl.

Angels are different, yes—they are holy and beautiful. But they can still die. Sam says, _If you try, I will turn you to dust. _

Uriel scoffs. Castiel gently inclines his head.

Demons wear a body and cavort around, lewd and crass and so dark it burns out their eyes. Angels, though, angels walk softly, full of wonder or derision, depending on who they were Above.

And Dean, Dean will never be ridden by Heaven or Hell. That is Sam's mandate.

_I wait_, Uriel says, _for God's command, and then I will destroy you. You are an abomination. _

_Or maybe, _Sam muses, stepping closer, leaning down slightly, and smirking when Uriel moves back. _Maybe I'm the culmination. The endgame_.

Castiel shifts in place. If he had his wings, they'd be rustling. _Sam_, he tries again, and Sam focuses on him, ignoring Uriel, looking past him like the speck of dust he is. _Dean is our last chance. If I can—_

_Possess him? _Sam demands. _Rape him? No. _

_There is a plan, _Castiel explains, so earnest it hurts. He chose his vessel well; the man seems born to beg. _Everything has a reason, designed by God. You must have faith, Sam. Existence depends on your brother. _

_No_, Sam says very gently, swinging his gaze back to Uriel. _Dean will not be touched by anything that's coming. Heaven or Hell, it doesn't matter. Now, both of you, get out of my sight. _

Castiel lowers his head, heaves a deep sigh. _As you wish_, he murmurs, and is gone in a crack of light.

But Uriel still stands there, eyes closed, and slowly a smile crosses his vessel's face_. The command has come_, he whispers, eyes opening.

Sam sighs, rolls his eyes, and lifts his hand.

Angels are different from demons. A demon is trying to groom him as the king, and an angel will relish killing him.

Both are blind to truth. He is King, the endgame, and angels and demons have one more thing in common: they die so very easily.

Sam cleans up the mess and goes back to his brother.


	140. better in fire

**Title**: better in fire

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: um, yeah. I dunno. Future!fic? Twisted?

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Notes**: I think it works without capitals. *shrugs*

* * *

you'll burn when the world does, and blood will run, and your soul will finally flee, and everything will be—

everything will be perfect

nothing is right, but right isn't perfect, and everything will be better—the way it should have been—when it's on fire

fire cleanses

it'll hurt for a moment, but only a moment, and then everything will be perfect

he'll be back, won't he?

he'll be back when you burn the world, when you burn with it—

he'll come back to put out the flames

he will, he will, he has to

that's what brothers do


	141. Beneath the lightning and the moon

**Title**: Beneath the lightning and the moon

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Coleridge.

**Warnings**: takes place early season four

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 370

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Ruby waits till Dean is asleep before calling and telling Sam to meet her out front. She's leaning against the car, and says, "Sam, that thing walking around isn't your brother."

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but she barrels on. "He came back wrong."

Scoffing, Sam stares down at her. "What did you expect? He spent forty years in Hell."

Ruby asks, "Forty years? Is that what he told you?" She looks away.

"What do you mean by that?" he demands. When she doesn't answer, he says, "_Ruby_."

She takes a deep breath. "No one just leaves Hell unmarked, Sam. He's—" She pauses. "I'm old by your count, but in Hell I'm still an adolescent. They don't care what I hear, so I heard a lot before I found you again." She looks up at him. "I'm a demon. I know my kind when I see them, just like I know the enemy. And your brother…" She shudders. "He's different. He's _wrong_."

Sam looks at her earnest, stolen face for a moment. "What do you see when you look at him?"

She lets out an explosive sigh. "He's neither and both at the same time. Sam, that's impossible."

He chuckles. "Dean doesn't do things half-assed." Curious, he cants his head. "Ruby, what about when you look at me?"

She smiles, meeting his eyes. "You shine, Sam." Then her expression hardens. "He's dangerous. He's not the man you knew."

Sam straightens to his full height. "This is an order, Ruby, so listen well. You will not hurt Dean, or cause him to hurt. If you do, I will destroy you."

She gapes up at him. "But he's not Dean!" she hisses. "Weren't you listening?"

He reaches down and grips her meatsuit's chin. "The man sleeping in that room cannot be touched. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she mutters petulantly. He lets her go and turns around to go back to the room.

"Sam," she calls. "Be careful."

He doesn't reply. Once he's sitting on his bed, he looks over at his brother.

Demon and angel. Neither and both. His eyes flash golden and he thinks, _What a pair we make, Dean_. Chuckling, he flops onto his back.


	142. the sound of thunder heard remote

**Title**: the sound of thunder heard remote

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "Great Pumpkin"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 270

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam is straightening up the room while Dean refills the tank when a crack of light reveals Uriel, still wearing the large black man.

"Samuel Winchester," the angel says. Sam's barely had time to glance up before Uriel is on him, hand burning his face.

He saw Uriel do this to demons. "No," he whispers in shock, trying to shove the angel away, but Uriel is unmovable, his eyes merciless; moments pass and they fill with fear.

Uriel's fingers dig into his skin, but nothing happens. Lilith and Samhain failed to kill him—so too, now, has an angel.

Sam reaches deep and throws the angel off him. Uriel goes down hard then springs back to his feet. "I am the Hand of God!" he roars.

Raising his hand, Sam reaches again, this time cementing Uriel in place.

"No!" Uriel shouts. "I am the Angel of the Sun!"

Sam ignores him. The power pools and flows, and he throws it at Uriel, pulling it back once it's gripped the angel's spirit.

Uriel screams and shudders; instead of black smoke, a bright light oozes from the vessel's eyes and mouth. Sam pulls until nothing else comes out and then squeezes. He releases the vessel and the man falls.

Sam gasps and doubles over, chest heaving for breath. His head aches, but less than after Samhain. It's getting easier.

He stares at the vessel. Holy fuck, he just killed an angel. But more than that—an angel failed to kill him.

The impala growls her way into the parking-lot and Sam grabs their bags, hurries out, slams the door behind him.


	143. untitled

**Title**: untitled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 195

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_I won't forget, _he swore, but this is the last day of the world, and Sam won't let him remember.

He can do that much.

o0o

_This is for the best_, Ruby tells him. _If he's away from you, he can be normal. Safe_.

_I know_, Sam says. _I know_.

o0o

Two years after Sam left Dean in the hospital with no memory of the past three decades, Sam feels him die. All the way across the continent, in the middle of a multiple-exorcism, Sam feels Dean just stop _being_.

He twists and the demons die, then he goes to find his brother.

o0o

He'd left Ruby as Dean's guard. She's whimpering in the corner when he gets there, starts pleading immediately, using words like _I tried_ and _too many_ and _sorry so fucking sorry. _

Sam looks at the remains of his brother, the man who went to Hell in his place, and doesn't care what her excuses are.

o0o

_I won't forget_, he swears, dropping half a dozen lit matches into the grave.

Ruby whimpers, on her knees at his feet, and whispers, _I'm sorry_.

o0o

Three weeks after Dean's death, not a demon remains in North America.


	144. untitled 2

**Title**: untitled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for season one's "The Benders"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 150

**Point of view**: third

* * *

The cage door swung open and Sam knew better than to leave. The deputy said, "What's that mean?"

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes tightly and trying not to sob. "It means Dean failed," he whispered.

"Dean?" the deputy asked.

Chuckling, caught between anger and despair, Sam said, "My brother. The guy you were with."

He didn't look over or answer when she demanded, "Your dead, _serial killer_ brother?"

Anger won out. These stupid backwater fuckers killed his brother. Sam crawled out of the cage and stood to his full height, popping his back. He absently shushed the deputy and listened. Someone was taking care to move silently, but Sam zeroed in on their position.

Stupid backwater fucker. Dean's killer.

Sam slunk into the shadows and waited for the dumbfuck to come into reach. He had no idea how many of them there were, but he'd kill them all.

He missed one.


	145. because of my brother I stray

**Title**: because of my brother I stray through the wilderness and cannot rest

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Gilgamesh_.

**Warnings**: spoilers for 4.1

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 495

**Point of view**: third

**Dedication**: layne67, in honor of her birth

**Prompt**: Sam's thoughts and his frame of mind when he buried Dean after the events in NRFTW. Sam taking off the amulet, putting in that lighter in Dean's pocket, cleaning and stitching Dean up maybe?

**Notes**: yes, it's just as depressing as that prompt suggests.

* * *

_Sam, _Bobby had said. _Son, you don't have to do this_.

_Yeah_, Sam had answered. _Yeah, I do._

It was the hardest thing he ever did.

But he did it.

o0o

First, he stripped Dean down. Washed him, gently. With holy water and tears, sometimes barely able to see.

_Dean_, he had said. Sobbed. _Dean. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have—shit. Why didn't you let me stay dead?_

He waited for Dean to answer, and when his brother didn't, he said what Dean would've said. _Me for you, Sammy? Not even a question, dude._

After all the blood was gone, Sam slowly, meticulously stitched him up. He hadn't even thought it to himself yet, but deep down, a part of him knew Dean would need this body back once Sam saved him.

There was no doubt that Sam would.

o0o

_Sam_, Bobby had said. _We need to burn him. You know that's what he wants_.

_What he wants?_ Sam hadn't asked. _He's fucking __**burning in Hell**__, and you want to burn him on Earth, too?_

_No, Bobby_, Sam had answered. _He'll need his body when he comes back_.

Bobby had stared at him in horror, but Sam just looked back, unblinking, until Bobby turned away.

o0o

_Dean_, he whispered, before shutting the coffin. _Dean, if you can hear me—just wait. I'm coming. I swear I'll get you out, if it takes me forever._

He slipped the lighter into Dean's pocket because when Dean woke up he'd need to be able to see.

As Sam stood back up, he saw the charm glinting on Dean's chest, that necklace Sam gave him for Christmas. The one he never took off. Sam clenched his eyes shut and squeezed his fists tight, and made an oath to track Lilith down and rend her limb from limb, corporeal or not.

Sam gently slipped the leather cord from it's home on Dean and slid it onto his neck.

He'd give it back to Dean soon enough.

o0o

_Sam_, Bobby had said, _I should be there_. _It's not—you shouldn't be alone now._

Sam didn't look at him, didn't respond. Just stared at the pine box and Dean in it, Dean not moving, Dean pale and gray and so very silent.

_Thanks, Bobby_, Sam had replied. _But go away now_.

Bobby went.

o0o

Sam worked with precision, shoveling dirt onto Dean's coffin. He didn't stop to rest and he kept quiet. He hummed bits and pieces of songs Dean had liked, every now and then, singing the lyrics in his head.

Finally, it was done. He patted the dirt down and then hunted for a couple of sticks. Dean should have a marker, if only for the short amount of time he'd be in the ground.

Once he had the cross, he gently worked it in at the head of Dean's grave. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he said, _I'll see you, Dean. I promise_.

With Dean's amulet clutched tight enough to hurt, Sam walked away.


	146. who we're meant to be

**Title**: who we're meant to be

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers and AU for 4.17

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 440

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean Smith has never fired a gun. His father is a mechanic, his mother manages a diner, and, last he heard, his baby sister ran off with a wanna-be rockstar.

Dean Smith is a people-person. He's a charmer. He worked his way up from the bottom and he's less than a dozen years from the top.

But he's not happy. He hates his job, his car, his apartment, his clothes. He hates the food he forces himself to eat and the flavored water he makes himself drink.

So when Sam Wesson shows up, asking questions with those puppy-dog eyes, Dean welcomes the interruption into his life. Hunting that creepy-ass ghost, defeating it—he felt _alive_ for the first time he could remember.

"We should keep doing this," Sam says earnestly. "I know you feel it, too."

Dean looks at him, weighing and measuring—the security of this life he has against the sheer _rightness_ of working at Sam's side.

"No," he replies. "I can't."

Sam goes, slumped down, and Dean suppresses the guilt. Yeah, they clicked, and yeah, he'd never felt more alive. But he can't just throw away everything he's worked for.

He sits at his desk, looking over the day's schedule, and he can't forget hunting, fighting, Sam with him all the way.

Dean met him less than a week ago, but something had been missing, and now it's not, except he doesn't know where Sam is and that's _wrong_.

He stands and walks out of his office, leaving everything but his wallet. He sees his boss in the hall and as he goes, he calls over his shoulder, "I quit." He doesn't wait for the reaction. He needs to find Sam before the kid does something stupid, like leaving town to hunt alone.

Sam's in the elevator and he keeps his gaze down, like all that fight's gone out of him.

"You were right," Dean tells him.

Sam's head shoots up. "I—I was?"

Dean nods and amends, "You _are_ right." Sam looks at him like a beaten puppy, like maybe things are finally turning around, but he just doesn't have the strength to hope. Dean asks, "So, what's the plan?"

Sam stays silent all the way to the first floor and just as the elevator opens, he says, "I talked to a woman in Kansas who told me to come see her."

"Okay," Dean says. "Let's go."

Sam's grin is brilliant and Dean can't help smiling in return. This is the craziest thing he's ever done, including that waitress in Florida during Spring Break, but he's never been more excited.

Everything finally feels _right_.


	147. what we're meant to do

**Title**: what we're meant to do

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers and AU for 4.17

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point of view**: third

* * *

After Sam has quit, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Get out of the building before being arrested for destruction of private property seems like a good idea, but then what? And go where? Back to the craphole apartment that's never felt like home? Pack up and leave town, start hunting? But Dean had been right to poke holes in that plan. Sam has no idea what to do. Or even who he is.

And that Dean in his dreams, his friend, his brother—that's not the man who threw him out of the office.

Sam takes the stairs down to the lobby and shuffles out, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor.

"Hey, Sam!"

He stops and turns, hope rising in him. Dean stomps up to him, but Sam sees the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

"Wesson, I just turned down a five-thousand dollar bonus and walked out of the best job I ever had, so this hunting thing had better be worth it." Dean raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

Sam grins.

Dean ducks his head, full smile blooming. "C'mon, Sammy," he says. "Let's get outta here."

He strides out and Sam follows. They have work to do.


	148. where no man's name is written yet

**Title**: where no man's name is written yet

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Gilgamesh_.

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to 4.16

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 465

**Point of view**: third

**Notes**: for lucywiggin, who wanted super!special!Sammy

* * *

"I didn't win," Sam says. "I died."

"Yeah," the demon laughs. "But you killed the champion."

o0o

It doesn't hurt anymore. Exorcising a demon, killing a demon—all the same, and pain-free. Easy. Satisfying in a way nothing else has ever been.

Castiel stares at him with wide eyes. Dean is unconscious on the floor, blood still dripping from… everywhere, it seems like.

"Can you heal him?" Sam asks quietly, going to his brother, reassuring himself in Dean's gasping breath.

"I cannot," Castiel answers, actually sounding regretful.

"Then get the fuck out," Sam commands.

With one lingering look at Dean, Castiel goes.

o0o

He can't turn it off. A part of him doesn't want to.

_Maybe this is always where things were headed_, he ponders, waiting for Dean to wake up. _And maybe it doesn't matter anymore._

It is what it is. _He_ is. Demons running scared, angels warily watching him, the bastard whose name Dean whimpered in sleep and never mentioned awake dead.

"'am," Dean mumbles, tongue clumsy and voice thick.

"I'm here," he answers, fingers barely pressed against Dean's wrist. "I'm fine."

Dean slips back under and Sam doesn't go get the doctor. He just sits there, listening to the rasp of the machines, thumb over Dean's pulse.

o0o

_I'm still me_, Sam wants to say, when they don't talk about it_. It's always been there. I just didn't know how to call on it. Control it. _

They should talk about it. Sam should tell Dean everything. Sam should know whatever Dean does, that he begs at night for Dad to forgive him. They should air everything for real, so that they can move past it. Become who they were before Hell.

They don't. Secrets and lies, angels and demons, Lilith and Alistair's memory and Azazel's blood.

And Sam _is_. Regretful and powerful and so damn tired of being chosen and fated and whatever else both sides have planned.

o0o

Dean is leaning on the hood of the car, face turned up to the sun, eyes closed, and he looks so young. Sam watches, weighing and measuring, determining how things can go now.

The demons either want to kill him or worship him, depending on the day. The angels want him on their side or they want him dead, depending on the hour.

And Dean just wants his little brother back, the one he sold himself to Lilith for.

That boy is dead. Sammy burned to ashes in Hell, lit aflame by Dean's screams. Sam remains, though. Sam, the one who killed Azazel's champion.

_I'm still me_, Sam wants to tell him. _Don't worry. I'll take care of everything, Dean. _

He'll win this war and let Dean live out his days however he wants. And it doesn't matter who gets in the way.


	149. in Texas, the talk turned to outlaws

**Title**: in Texas, the talk turned to outlaws

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from David Allen Coe.

**Warnings**: takes place during season two

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 260

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: exacerbate

* * *

"You're not helping the situation," Sam hisses out the side of his mouth.

His brother, of course, just grins that cocky, _can't touch me_ grin that has annoyed Sam since the ninth grade and drawls to the police chief, "There a problem officer? I'd sure hate to be a problem."

The chief is neither impressed nor placated. "You're comin' in, boy," he says. His gaze swings to include Sam. "The both of you. Your car was reported at three crime scenes and the desecrated grave."

Dean's smirk doesn't fade. "Was it now?"

The chief's face is stone. "Yes."

Raising a brow, Dean looks at Sam.

Sam sighs.

"Sir," he tries, "we have pressing business elsewhere. We really—"

"Save it," the chief interrupts. "Whoever you are, I don't care. Where you gotta be, I care even less. You're suspects, or at least there's somethin' wrong in your brains. You're comin' in."

Dean moves and the chief pulls his gun, a draw as fast as Dad's had been. But his attention is off Sam for a moment, and that's all the time Sam needs.

"I'm really sorry about this, sir," he says honestly, gently tightening the gag. "We'll call it in half an hour out of town, but I'm sure someone will miss you before then."

The chief's glare doesn't lessen. Dean's smirk hasn't since he walked in the room, all official and no-nonsense.

"Hey," Dean calls as he shuts the door, "tell Henriksen I said _hi_, yeah?"

Sam smacks him upside the head. Dean chuckles and peels out the parking lot.


	150. Everything he gave

**Title**: Everything he gave to us took all he had

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Reba McEntire.

**Warnings**: AU for 4.14 "Sex and Violence"

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 605

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

_Kill him_, Nick says. _We'll be together forever. I'll adore you, idolize you. I'll do what he should have done. You went to Hell and he never thanked you, Dean. But I love you. Kill him. He's in the way._

The axe feels so light.

_Kill him. I love you. You deserve better than a lying, thankless brat. You deserve me._

Sam is a stranger. You haven't seen Sammy since you came back. So many secrets, outright lies, half-truths, lies by omission. Sam is a stranger and you're so tired. You should have stayed in Hell.

_Kill him_, Nick says_. I'll never leave you. If we'd been brothers then, I'd have followed you Down and saved you. He didn't even do that. Kill him for me. Kill him for you._

Dad told you that it might come to this. Sammy made you promise you would, if the time ever came. An angel told you to stop him.

_Kill him for all his failures. Kill him for his sins. Kill him, Dean. I'll never leave you. I'll never run away to California and forget about you. You gave up so much for him. End it now._

Sam looks so young. He looks like Sammy. He looks like the boy you went to Hell for. You should have stayed there, in Alistair's workroom, by his side, bloodstained knives in your hands. You had a purpose there. You had a place.

_Kill him_, Nick says. _Punish him. Rip him open and make him bleed. Show him how strong you are. Show him what you learned because of him. Show him who you are now. Show him, Dean._

The axe is light. Like the Colt had been, just before Azazel died. Like the last knife you held before waking in a coffin. Like nothing has in this second life.

_Kill him. Now. Kill him and we'll be together forever. Kill him, Dean._

Sam stares at you. You remember being here before, but you were on the ground then and he had a gun. He shot you four times. He pulled the trigger and you still went to Hell for him. He died in your arms and you should have ended everything then.

_Kill him_. _Kill him, Dean_.

You still have one knife on you. You throw the axe aside and straddle Sam, holding the blade to his throat. He stares into your eyes, Sammy somewhere deep inside. The cut still sluggishly bleeds, where you sliced him earlier.

_Kill him_, Nick says. _Good. C'mon, Dean. Kill him for_ _me_.

You've been to Hell. You were Alistair's favorite toy before you became his student. He taught with jubilation and you learned with glee.

_Kill him_. _Kill him and I'll be yours. I'll be the brother you always wanted, the brother he never was._

You slide the blade into the tear in his skin. You perfected precision with Alistair guiding your hand. Unless you wish it, the knife will not slip. Sam's chest is heaving, his fingers clenched into fists. For all his power, he is helpless beneath you. You could kill him, like he begged you to promise lifetimes ago.

_Kill him, Dean, _Nick whispers._ Punish him. Punish him and be mine._

You lunge to your feet and spin, throwing the knife like your father taught you. It lodges in the siren's throat and he/she/it gurgles, falls, dies. You've been to Hell. It had shrieking voices and hard hands and cold blades. It didn't have Sam.

_You killed him_, Sam gasps, his hand at his throat, blood squeezing through his fingers.

_Yes_, you say. _I did_.

You're never going to Hell again.


	151. snapshots of a second chance

**Title**: snapshots of a second chance

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 400

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: fifteen sentences about season four

* * *

Dean never looks in the mirror anymore because he sees Alistair's prodigy staring back, eyes pure white.

_That charm was meant for John_, Bobby thinks as Sam returns it to his brother_. I wonder… it doesn't matter now._

It gets easier every time, the power soothing as it strikes out, and if it can get him to Lilith and destroy her completely, he doesn't care about the cost.

He plays a good game, little Dean-pet does, but Alistair perfected it long ago and the boy is not his equal yet.

Chuck sobs at night, sometimes, unable to look away from his inescapable nightmares-that-are-true, unable to wake up.

She knew how she'd die and she still went to help them save the reapers because it was war and her side couldn't afford to lose.

Sam recorded every moment of Dean's second life in his mind, etched deep, and even when they were fighting or not speaking, he thanked God for this chance to make amends.

"It doesn't matter what you tell me," Dean says. "He's my brother. I'll die for him. I already have."

Uriel watches with disapproval and disappointment as Castiel slides closer to the edge; he does not warn, merely waits for the moment he can rain down righteous punishment on the mortal that dares tempt his brother.

Dean doesn't sleep for long, anymore, scant cat-naps here and there, and any time his mind plays those memories, he wills himself awake because he's not in Hell anymore.

"Hey," she says softly, small hands on his shoulder. "You've trusted me this far. Just trust me a little further, Sam."

He stares at the horizon, longing to shed his vessel and take flight; but this must be done, Dean Winchester must be shown the way, and he cannot do that if he is soaring in the sky.

Oh, the boy is so very clever, so deft, so precise—Alistair screams for him, so proud of his greatest creation.

"Dude," Dean says, "let's take a day off and just drive." Sam nods.

Sam wakes up, sometimes, still expecting to be alone, but when he sees Dean sacked out in the other bed, barely asleep, or sitting on the floor cleaning guns and sharpening knives, or flipping through Dad's journal, or—just _being_ there, he feels a small thrill of hope shoot through him, chasing away the darkness. And that's enough.


	152. submersion

**Title**: submersion

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: SPOILERS for 4.19

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 160

**Point of view**: third

* * *

He can't get free. They slice him and the mom-sister-what-the-fuck-_ever_ is lapping up his blood and he _can't get free_.

He killed Alistair with no problem but two ghouls have him trapped. What the fuck?

"His blood tastes different," the female says, glancing up at Not!Adam. She licks her lips, Sam's blood dripping down her chin.

He's losing blood fast, and even as he reaches for the power he can feel hovering out of reach, he knows it's too much. His mind is still foggy from the sucker-being-whacked-in-the-face-with-his-own-fucking-gun, and it's been too long since Ruby juiced him. Not since the night he killed Alistair.

He can feel the strength leaving him, everything getting colder and further away. Not!Adam jams his finger into Sam's side, crooking it under his skin, digging the tip into his muscle. It hurts, but distantly. Like a mosquito. Burrowing beneath his skin, draining him dry. He's getting tired. So tired.

_Dean_, he thinks. _Dean_.

_I'm sorry_.


	153. if it's the end of the world

**Title**_: _if it's the end of the world, it must be necessary

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: I'm pretty sure the show won't go this way. Spoilers for aired season four.

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point of view**: third

_

* * *

_

_He's the shadows, Dean_, Ananchel—Anna—says softly, trying to convince him of something he will never believe. _And you're the light_.

_It doesn't matter what you tell me_, Dean replies. _He's my brother. I'll die for him. I already have, and I'll do it again, no matter what he is or what he's done._

Her eyes are so sad, her hands so gentle as she cups his face in her palms._ You damn the world this way,_ she whispers_. There's still time._

_No,_ he corrects her, placing his hands over hers. _There isn't. You lost when he was born._


	154. fatherhood

**Title**: fatherhood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: SPOILERS for 4.19

**Pairings**: mentions of canon het; slight AU

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 370

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He didn't love them more. He didn't even know about Adam until the kid was twelve, and Adam wasn't Mary's son.

"Look, just come meet him," Kate begged. "Please. You owe me that much."

So he left Dean and Sam in South Dakota with Bobby and headed back to Windom. He knew it'd just fuel Sam's fire about getting out of the life, being dropped like that, and it pissed Dean off, but (of course) Dean didn't say anything. He never said anything in front of Sam, just stared at John with Mary's sad eyes and did as ordered (which Mary never had. She'd have kicked John in the balls if he dared give her an order. "I'm not a soldier, Johnny," she said. "I think for myself.")

In fact, the whole reason John was in the mess with a third kid is because of how much Kate looked like Mary. Her strong, gentle hands stitching him up, like Mary did the first time they met, after that brawl got out of control. (Come to think of it, that might be why Mary's dad never liked him. Not much of a first impression if your daughter is giving some punk first aid after a fight he started, and then the kid shows up at your house to take her on a date. Yeah. That's probably why.)

He met the kid and took him to a baseball game, talked with him a bit, kissed Kate on the cheek, and drove out of town. Adam was a good boy, with a sharp mind. He'd be going places. He was normal.

Adam didn't need John Winchester hanging over him like a curse, didn't need hunting to ruin his life like it had Dean and Sam's. They would never be able to escape, no matter what Sammy thought, running away to college. Dean understood. He took the burden and made it his own, embraced it.

He went back to those pages in his journal, that hunt in Windom. The drunken scribbles about a blonde nurse with Mary's deft touch. He reread it and then tore it out.

Adam didn't need John Winchester, and Dean never had to know John had been unfaithful to Mary.


	155. Behind our lullabies

**Title**: Behind our lullabies, the hooves of terrible horses thunder and drum

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Carol Ann Duffy.

**Warnings**: takes place between "The Benders" and "Shadow" in season one

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 960

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: horse

* * *

They were hunting a ghost horse in Montana, a beast that hadn't killed anyone yet but cost thousands dollars in damages and broken a few bones.

"How, _exactly_," Sam demanded as Dean drove them into town, "do we find the bones of a horse?"

Dean shrugged.

o0o

They spent days researching, with no results at all. They walked the haunted property in the afternoons, also with no results.

Sam woke up at two in the morning on Sunday, and Dean was gone. The impala was still parked outside the room, but Dean wasn't anywhere to be found. It was two in the morning and Dean was gone without a word.

Sam didn't panic. He got dressed and first checked out the car—maybe Dean had been jumped while heading out for a drive—but there was no evidence of anything. He wasn't panicking, but the last time they'd been separated, they'd both almost been killed by inbred cannibals. He called Dean's phone, but it rang in his duffle in the room.

"Shit, Dean," he muttered. "Where are you?"

He leaned against the impala, rested his head on the cool roof. Where could Dean have gone?

And then Sam remembered how Dean stared out at the haunted field.

"You didn't," Sam said. "Damnit, Dean!"

o0o

He pulled up just off the property. There were no lights but the impala's, star, and moon. Sam didn't know where to start. Nearly five hundred acres, the horse had shown up on. And if Sam couldn't find him, the horse would probably kill Dean.

Sam grabbed the shotgun and went hunting.

o0o

"Dean!" he yelled. "Dean!" He shone the flashlight on the ground to keep sure footing. He'd been looking for almost an hour. "Dean!"

He heard a faint whooping and froze, straining to listen. It came again, from the west. He took off in that direction, following the sound; the closer he got, he heard others—hoofbeats thundering, horses bugling, and Dean's laughter, soaring above it all.

"Dean!" Sam turned in place. He could hear so much, but nothing was in sight. "Dean!"

The horses appeared in the distance, galloping toward him, glowing bright as starlight. He didn't run, didn't move, just watched them come.

Dean rode on the lead horse, lit up by the herd's glow. He passed Sam on the left and the rest streamed around him without stirring a speck of dust. He turned to follow them with his eyes and they vanished into the air, until only the lead horse and Dean remained.

They circled around and galloped to him, past him, circled again. "Dean!" he called, hands tight on his gun. He'd dropped the flashlight when he first saw the herd. "C'mon, Dean, wake up!"

Dean's laughter floated over the still Montana air. The horse tossed its head, mane billowing out and resettling. It pawed at the dirt before loping some more.

"Dean!" He screamed his brother's name as loud as he could and it echoed out over the plain.

In the distance, the horse stopped. Bright, gleaming, a phantasm of the past with his brother on its back—it turned and he yelled again. "Dean!"

Dean patted the horse's phantom neck. "It's okay, sweetheart," he said. Sam heard him clearly in the silence of the night. "You need to move on with your family now."

The horse nickered as Dean swung down; then it spun around and vanished into the distance, leaving only the moon and stars to light up the landscape.

Sam stormed up to Dean and grabbed his shoulders. "What the hell were you doing?" he demanded, shaking Dean.

Dean laughed, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "She just wanted someone to run with her, Sammy," he said. "She's gone now—they all are." He glanced in the direction the ghosts went. "I wish—" His voice trailed off.

Just before Sam panicked that his brother would follow the herd, Dean shook himself out of it. "Where's the car?"

"Um," Sam said. "The driveway?"

He ducked as Dean swatted at him. "You walked all around the haunted acres? You tryin' to get stampeded on?"

Sam gaped. "You joined the ghosts!" he shot back. "You have no room to talk. At all. Ever again."

"I'm sorry," Dean said softly. "I just—I had to go. She was waiting outside and I couldn't stop. I had to see her, and then I couldn't go back in to wake you."

Sam responded, "'s'kay. Just—let's not do this again."

Dean chuckled sadly. "They were the last, Sammy. She just wanted a human who understood."

Sam stared at him. "Dean," he said. "What happened?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter anymore. They've moved on to whatever comes next." He glanced around. "Let's camp here. We'll head back to the car at sunup."

"Camp?" Sam asked, letting Dean's deflection work for now. "All I have are a gun and a flashlight."

"Well," Dean told him, face lit up by gentle moonlight, "all I need is the ground and the sky."

Sam stared at him as Dean flopped down, stretching out on the grassy dirt.

"Dean," he tried, settling next to him. "Did—as a kid, did you ever ride a horse?"

"Nope," Dean answered quietly. "I always wanted to, but never got the chance."

"You looked good," Sam said. "Natural." Thinking back, it frightened him how _right_ Dean seemed at that ghost mare. Like they'd ride off into the horizon and never come back.

But Sam had called his name and Dean told the horse to go on without him, and Sam took comfort in that.

At sunup, though, Sam decided, he'd kick Dean's ass for leaving him in that room to go play with ghosts.


	156. In place of the lord

**Title**: In place of the Lord, I whispered, a fool has risen

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: speculation—no real spoilers past 4.20

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of view**: third

**Wordcount**: 440

* * *

Sam howled, every capillary and vein constricting, each muscle clenching. He'd never been so hungry, so thirsty—and then it stopped.

_Oh, that's better_, a sibilant voice murmured.

"Who—who are you?" Sam asked, worried that anything could get into Bobby's panic room.

_You know who I am_, the voice said. _You were created for me, Samuel_. Sam's arms stretched up over his head, but he didn't move them. _This is a nice body_, the voice approved. _Shame there's no wings, though_.

"No," Sam denied. "No, no, no. I haven't had any in days. You can't be here."

The voice laughed, rolling Sam's shoulders and bending his spine. _That's why I'm finally out, Sam. Your little demon-witch has been suppressing me. She's clever, I'll admit that. _Sam's body spun in place, the voice methodically moving every part of him. _I'll enjoy destroying her piece by piece._

"We can't get out," Sam said, determined to shove the invader back wherever it came from. "Bobby made this room."

_A human_, the voice snorted. _Color me apprehensive_. Sam's body ambled to the wall and his hand touched the smooth concrete. Nothing happened; the thing possessing him didn't gasp or cry out or anything—_Like I said_, the voice hissed. _A human_.

The wall crumpled. _Let's go see what big brother is up to, yeah?_ The choice chuckled. _It's been a long time since we stood face-to-face._

Sam tried stopping his body. He was just so tired, though. The voice gently pushed him far back into his mind, murmured, _Rest, Sam. You've done your part_.

_Dean_, he whispered. _Don't hurt Dean. Please_.

"He locked you in here," the invader said aloud with Sam's voice. "He shut you away, gave up on you. And you still protect him?"

_He was only trying to save me. Please_. Sam slowly sank down, eager to rest. _Please_.

"Say my name, Sam. Say my name and ask for a favor." The invader cracked his neck, loosened his muscles.

_Please, Lucifer_, Sam murmured, almost completely gone. _Do whatever you must, but don't hurt Dean. For me, please, don't hurt Dean._

Lucifer's vessel's soul subsided into the darkness with barely a blink. "Don't worry, Sam," Lucifer said, destroying the human-made prison. "Your brother will be sent to you in no time. I pay my debts." He smirked. "But my brother—" He stepped out of the rubble and Dean Winchester's body met him.

"Sammael," his brother said.

Lucifer inclined his head. "Joshua." He stretched out a tendril; nothing of the human remained in Joshua's vessel. His debt was paid and his oath kept.

Time to play with Father's favored son again.


	157. as they put me to the water

**Title**: as they put me to the water

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; song from Springsteen.

**Warnings**: takes place immediately after 4.22

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 255

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: many moons ago, dreamlittleyo shared with me lyrics she thought tailor-made for the Winchesters. I finally wrote something for them.

* * *

_You were standing in the door, I was standing in the rain,_

_With the same hot blood burnin' in our veins_

* * *

They don't speak. They run out of the cursed, bloodstained church; they flee into the night, soldiers with a battle they cannot win. Shadows dog their steps, Ruby's laugh and Lilith's smile, and Lucifer's worldwide wings.

Sam is sorry. So is Dean. But regret is useless, and cannot turn back time, cannot erase what they have done. Dean started it, unknowingly, in the bowels of Hell, Hell's pretty little puppet in crimson chains. And Sam—he walked into the trap, tricked and caught, so easily.

They're both to blame, but at the moment, they're just content in being alive. They've spent most of the year at odds with each other, neither listening to the other's words. Or even to the intent behind them. Lost in trying to save the other—so easy to trick. So easy to fool into falling.

They'll forgive each other; they already have. Brothers, blood and tears, skin and bone and sweat. It's the rest of the world to worry about, the world that they may have very well damned.

"Sammy," Dean says, "don't stop," even as they both collapse, unable to keep going. "We have to get away."

Sam looks back. Far in the distance, the world is ending as Lucifer rises. "Dean," he murmurs. "It's tomorrow in Australia, so it can't be armageddon, right?"

"Right, Sammy," Dean answers. Sam pretends he doesn't hear the tears in his voice or see the tears in his eyes.

They sit together on the dirt and wait for a dawn which never comes.


	158. Five times Dean ate healthy

**Title**: Five times Dean ate healthy, and one time Sam didn't

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season four

**Pairings**: one blip of Dean/OFC

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 420

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: not in chronological order

**Dedication**: gypsy_atavari to the prompt _of 5 times Dean eats healthy and 1 time Sam doesn't._

* * *

**I**

Look, she was a vegetarian and had legs up to _here_, okay? Don't judge.

**II**

In the weeks after the heart-attack, when Sam followed him around like a puppy and monitored everything he ate, he decided to humor the kid. Just for a bit.

It's not like scarfing down salads hurt him, right? And it made Sam happy.

**III**

Whenever Dad was home, Dean tried to cook supper. Something simple and easy, like Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, or some spaghetti.

Dad liked carrots. Dean always tried to figure out a way to fit them in with whatever meal he fixed, and then he ate at least two helpings, just to see Dad smile.

**IV**

Just before he left for Stanford, Sammy went through a health-food craze. To keep the peace, Dean ate whatever Sam put in front of him.

It didn't work, and Sam left anyway.

**V**

When he was fifteen, Dean spent three months in the hospital due to a broken leg and then complications with appendicitis. It sucked hard, since the nurses were only average in looks(and most of 'em were older than _Dad_) and he had to eat hospital food. Sammy refused to sneak anything good in; his eyes were still wide and frightened from Dean falling off the roof(and okay, yeah, that was pretty frickin' stupid of him—not like he's Batman or anything) and then Dean nearly flat-lined in surgery. So, not surprising Sam wouldn't go against the doctors. Even when Dean pouted.

Which he didn't. At all. Really.

But three months of hospital food, and then on the day Dad and Sammy sprang him, Sammy puppy-eyed him into getting grilled chicken and steamed vegetables instead of a cheeseburger.

**And the one time Sam didn't eat healthy**

They survived the apocalypse. Lucifer agreed to return to Hell and resume his place, instead of being locked in a cage. The angels retreated to Heaven and Castiel took over in God's place, since God had been a long time gone.

"Sammy," Dean said in the silence after all combatants returned to their places. The world was just like it had been, no sign of the war.

Sam looked at him and held out a hand; Dean pulled him up. "Dean," he murmured, shaking his head. He'd never looked so tired and Dean just wanted to take him somewhere he could sleep for years. Sam clutched Dean's arm and Dean led him away.

"Let's get pie," Dean said. "Any kind you want."

"Okay," Sam agreed.


	159. bonedust

**Title**: bonedust

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 250

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Toledo

* * *

His least-favorite place in all the world is Ohio. Toledo, to be exact. He hates it more than any other place ever, even after he forgets why. He remembers blood and pain and the sharp glint of bone, and someone gasping for breath, and someone else screaming. And he can remember thinking _not like this not like this not fucking Toledo not after everything not like this no not like this please not like this. _

Years and years and years and miles and states and kills—anything that gets in his way, anything that bothers him. When he thinks about it, he's almost sure he lost his morals in Toledo.

He hates Toledo and avoids Ohio in its entirety. Centuries roll past and Ohio no longer exists, and he still bypasses that patch of ground. He carries a silver-handled gun and a gleaming dagger, and wears a golden amulet around his neck that whispers _homefamilybloodbrother_. He doesn't think of it as his, but he can't bear to part with it.

Whatever it means, he knows that knowledge is lost in Toledo, along with any name but _Hunter_, but _Killer_, but _Death_.

He hates Toledo long after the United States crumbles to dust and humans escape a dying planet for the stars. He hates Toledo for reasons he cannot recall, but probably have something to do with how he doesn't die and can't be killed.

It has something to do with whatever—_who_ever?—he lost there, but he simply can't remember.


	160. Two, of course there are two

**Title**: Two, of course there are two

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season four; AU; reimaginings of Biblical lore(read: blasphemy)

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 550

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: H. for her birthday, to her prompt _Dean/Sam. Dean as __Lucifer__ and Sam, the Antichrist_

**Notes**: oblique reference to _The Last Unicorn_

* * *

He is ancient, older than the sky and the sea. He remembers the stars being born, when the sun first shed light. He remembers the first word and the first sigh.

He was first, before all others save the Creator. He was first, the best, the Star of Morning, the dawn of beginnings.

He remembers the others, his sisters and brothers. He remembers the first command: love. Love each other, love the creations, love Me.

He is ancient and proud. It was that pride, that refusal to kneel before lesser beings, that saw him thrown from the sky, into an abyss of fire and blood. But even there, beneath the banners of Hell, he refused to submit to anyone and clawed his way to the throne.

He is the MorningStar, once the most powerful of angels and now the high lord of demons.

He is a newborn human, cradled in the arms of an exhausted blonde, and he has no memory of the eons past.

o0o

All his life, Sam felt like something was missing. The closest that fissure in his soul came to being closed was when he and Dean worked in tandem, or when they curled up together, close enough to share their breath. Sometimes, he thought he could hear Dean when they were miles apart, or he felt Dean's emotions like his own.

When he was ten, he bought a basket of books at a church sale and devoured them on the trip from Iowa to Maine. In one of them he found the line _two halves of the same magic_, and it sounded right. Him and Dean, complete together, inseparable. Whole.

o0o

Dean dreams of Hell long before he spends any time there. He sees fire and blood mingle, lakes of ash and brimstone, pillars of bone and a palace of shattered souls.

Castiel's hand burned Dean because that which is holy can never touch the impure.

o0o

Sam does not remember striding up Heaven's front walk and being stopped at the door.

"I am sorry," Saint Peter said. "You can't come in here."

Sam doesn't remember how it hurt, being turned away. How it burned.

How it made something inside him howl; how it made something inside him scream.

o0o

He is ancient, and Alistair does not know what he did. Hell's chief tormentor, the MorningStar's acolyte—when he sharpened his blades in Dean's ribcage, he does not know what he awoke.

The man who dug his way out his own grave is not the man who was buried there. But even still, he does not know, cannot yet remember—

o0o

When Sam kills Lilith and the last Seal breaks, Dean clutches Sam and Sam clutches Dean.

The floor groans, long-held locks shattering, and something inside Dean shrieks.

Sam echoes the sound, as they both fall to their knees. "Dean?" he gasps.

The man who returned to life was not the man who died. The man who rises to his feet in a cursed church is not the man who collapsed to the ground.

"Brother," he says, dark wings unfurling. "Come. We have a war to win."

o0o

He is ancient, and he is awake. His brother, the other half of his soul, torn from him as he fell out of the sky, has finally returned.

They have work to do.


	161. apt pupil

**Title**: apt pupil

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: dark

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 145

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: SPN, author's choice, The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)

* * *

Alistair's glee is palpable as Dean makes the first slice. It's shallow and long, all the way down the torso from the base of the throat to the navel. The soul whimpers but doesn't beg. That will come later, Dean knows.

With precise, unhurried motions, Dean peels back the skin. It doesn't look like the musculature he saw when he was alive; he ignores that. He carefully detaches the muscles, placing them to the side. The soul gasps and writhes, sobbing now. Still no begging.

Dean takes a damp cloth and scrubs at the bones revealed, gray instead of white. The soul is close to passing out, so Dean reaches up to pat its face. "If you go away," he tells it gently, "it'll be his turn." He nods his head toward Alistair. "That what you want?"

The soul screams for mercy. Alistair claps his hands.


	162. funeral pyre, run red with blood

**Title**: funeral pyre, run red with blood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4; takes place during "In My Time Of Dying"

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 285

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: author's choice, the color of sacrifice

* * *

John tells his boys goodbye, though they don't know it, and strides to meet Mary's murderer again.

He places the gun on the table, staring into Azazel's stolen eyes, and thinks back to Sam's confused green gaze, how big and strong he's gotten, how so unknowingly powerful. He remembers how frail Dean looked, how he broke in Azazel's grip, how as a boy he did everything John ever asked, but he won't do the one last task John has set him. (John's counting on that. Dean's the wildcard, always has been.)

As John stares at the one thing he's ever truly hated, he thinks back to Mary, her blonde hair gleaming gold in sunlight, her bright and quick smile, her calloused hands and booming laugh. He remembers her eyes as he woke up in the dirt, neck aching, her father bloody and dead at her feet.

He remembers that stranger who convinced him to buy the impala, and how the man's gaze could sear through him like Mary's, the man who's no longer a stranger, who's confused and aching in a bed five rooms down.

"I'm honestly surprised, John," Azazel says, stolen hand tracing the cold metal of Samuel Colt's greatest creation.

John pictures Mary in his mind, how she gently kissed their boys before putting them to bed that final night.

"I'm not," he says. Sacrifice seems to run in their family, and he hopes their boys know better.

(He suspects that's a foolish hope, just like he knows Mary will meet him where he's going, because there's only one ending for those who make devil-deals.

He prays, in that final second, that Dean will never join them there. It's a futile prayer.)


	163. a lifetime of firsts

**Title**: a lifetime of firsts

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for basic plot points of all the aired bits

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 145

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: "I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest." (Much Ado About Nothing)

* * *

When John first sees Mary, he thinks she's cute and never expects to see her again.

When John first kisses Mary, she tastes like strawberries and frosting, and her hands are tangled in his shirt and his hair, and she giggles into his mouth.

When John first makes love to Mary he knows it's all over. He'll never want anyone else.

When John buries her, what little was left, he knows it's all beginning. Holding her boys while it rains onto her coffin, he hears the roar of fire in his ears, and her scream.

"I promise," he says, arms tight around the only pieces of her left in his life. "I swear, Mary. I'll find what did this." Sam wriggles, but Dean stays still and quiet. "Mary. I'll make it pay."

John leaves the cemetery, Dean silent at his side, Sam asleep in his arms.


	164. weakness

**Title**: weakness

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 125

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean "Love is great. But sometimes, it's just another way to bleed." (Anita Blake)

* * *

Samuel Winchester has one weakness, and every demon, angel, hunter, and killer in existence knows it.

The only thing to do, then, he determines, is to lock that weakness away. A hidden place, deep in the shadows, so far down into the core of his power that no one can ever find it.

So he does.

When Dean Winchester falls off the radar, at first everyone expects Samuel, his dark majesty, king of Heaven and Hell and everything in-between, to burn the world trying to get him back. And when he doesn't—well, no one has the courage to question him.

There is but one person who hears Dean begging to be released. And he knows that this is all for the best.


	165. to the end

**Title**: to the end

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 87

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, take me with you

* * *

It comes down to Dean and Sam standing at the abyss, angels and demons dust behind them, Hell's gaping maw before, and the throne that Sam has never wanted.

"Tell me what to do," Sam whispers, suddenly all of six and wanting his big brother to make everything better. Dean used to be good at that.

Dean raises his head, lifts his hand, touches Sam's shoulder, then wraps his fingers around the back of Sam's neck.

All he says is, "Take me with you" and that's enough.


	166. brothers

**Title**: brothers

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Warnings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John/Mary/wee!Dean, "You're going to be a big brother"

* * *

Daddy picks him up from Sunday school and takes him out for ice-cream. Daddy shuffles around on his stool, barely eating any of his boring vanilla scoop while Dean happily chows through his chocolate with chocolate sauce and sprinkles.

"Dean," Daddy says. "Dean, there's something I need to tell you."

He looks up at Daddy.

"Now, kiddo, you know that Mommy and I love you, right?"

Dean nods, turns back to his ice-cream, and gets the last little chocolate juice out of the bowl.

"Dean," Daddy says. "Mommy's having another baby. You're gonna be a big brother."

He thinks about that for a minute. Vicky in his class has a big brother. He waits for her sometimes, and once he beat up George for making her cry.

Dean can do that. "Okay," he says, and holds out his empty ice-cream bowl. "More?"

Daddy smiles, bright and wide, and drops a kiss on his forehead.


	167. paved with good intentions

**Title**: paved with good intentions

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4; slightly implied AU

**Parings**: none

**Wordcount**: 90

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam, Lawyer

* * *

He tells himself it's not that different from what he did in that other life. He's still helping people. Still stopping bad guys. Just—

This time they're human. Less likely to kill him, or curse him, or send him to--

Well. He's still helping people. And Dean's safe. _Dean's safe_ where Lilith and Alistair can't touch him anymore.

And anyway, isn't this the life he wanted? Back at Stanford, with Jess. He was going to be a lawyer.

It's not that different. And if Dean remembered, he'd understand.

Really, he would.


	168. turn of the blade

**Title**: turn of the blade

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 130

**Prompt**: Alistair & Dean, teaching him how to torture others in Hell

* * *

Alistair guides his hand the first time, showing him where and how to cut. Dean knows how to kill with a blade, quick and clean, or how to make it hurt if he needs information. But what worked Above won't here; there are no bodies, only manifestations of souls. It's an entirely different ballgame and on Dean's first time on the field, Alistair whispers in his ear. _That's good. Ooh, such a nice cut, pet. Like that. I knew I was right with you._

Dean has always learned quickly. Soon enough, Alistair steps back and just watches.

With a patience he rarely had Above, Dean will wait until he has a chance to turn the blade on Alistair. He knows it will come.

Everyone gets tortured in Hell.


	169. to sleep through the night

**Title**: to sleep through the night

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic AU

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: any, "I did it for you"

* * *

_I did it for you_, Sam says, sitting proud on his throne, a circlet of fire on his head. _You should thank me._

On his knees, ribs creaking, hands bound behind him, surrounded by demons, Dean says, _You're a fuckin' liar, little brother. None of this was for me._

The demons growl, but Dean looks up to meet Sam's pure-blue gaze. No demon Dean's ever heard of has eyes like that. He doesn't know what Sam is, but he sure as fuck knows who he is.

_Then why did I do it?_ the End of All Things asks quietly. If Dean still had a heart after everything, it'd be broken.

_Because_, Dean finally admits, _you came back wrong_.

Taking a deep breath that sends sharp pain throughout his body, Dean adds, _But so did I._

And his little brother smiles.


	170. in the blood

**Title**: in the blood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, hanging out with Ben (3x02)

* * *

He finds them not too long after the world doesn't end, with a duffle bag, a gun, and two knives.

"Teach me," he says, all determination and drive. "I need to know."

"You don't know what you're asking," Dean says. "What about your mom?"

He looks away. "She married this guy," he mutters. "She doesn't—I can't be there anymore."

o0o

"We can't keep him," Sam hisses, keeping his voice low so they don't wake Ben. "Dean, you know that. We should send him back to Lisa."

Dean laughs, and there's desperation in the sound. "We can't," he says. "Dude, he's one of us."

Sam pretends he doesn't understand. "One of us?"

Nodding, Dean glances over at his son, asleep on the top of the covers, a knife shoved under the pillow. "A Winchester."

o0o

Ben sings along with Dean's music and picks up shooting like it's in his blood. He mocks Sam's hair and inhales his food and laughs at Dean's stupid comments.

None of them think anything of the first nightmare. Or the second. But during the third, the room trembles.

Sam's died and come back, and he was once within a stone's-throw of being Lucifer reborn. Dean's died and gone to Hell, where he scared even the most demented demon, and he was chosen by Heaven to save the world.

"You're right," Sam tells Dean while Ben takes a shower, none the wiser. "He is one of us."

Dean closes his eyes, sighs, and mutters, "Shit, Sammy." He squares his shoulders and sits up straight. "Should we tell him the truth?"

Sam's eyes glow yellow for a moment; he blinks and they're green again. "Yeah," he decides. "We should."


	171. family vacations

**Title**: family vacations

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Parings**: John/Mary

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John, The Grand Canyon

* * *

Mary used to plan out places they'd go to—London, Paris, New Orleans, Yellowstone, the pyramids. She'd never been out of Kansas, so she dreamed of far away, of romance and mystery.

John's been around the world, to jungles and deserts, and he's killed in them all. He just wanted to settle down.

The night before she died, the last November 1 he ever enjoyed, Mary told him that she wanted to take the boys to the Grand Canyon when Dean turned ten. She didn't explain why, just told him and kissed him goodnight.

They never do make it the Grand Canyon, him and Mary and the boys. After—well, Dean sometimes talked about it in passing. Sam mentioned various things he thought might be cool. But John had a mission and no time for frivolities.

When he leaves Dean, when Azazel has popped back into the world, before meeting up with the boys, John does swing by that hole in the ground. He goes at night, when there's no one around, and takes off a necklace he's worn for near-on thirty years, a leather cord with Mary's charm bracelet hanging from it.

"I made it, Mary," he says, and throws it over the edge.


	172. wish you were here

**Title**: wish you were here

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairing**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Castiel/Dean, Road Trip just the two of them

* * *

Dean lets Castiel drive and just stares out the window, at the world that still exists, happy and healthy, because of the man who _should_ be sitting shotgun.

It'd be quicker if they took a plane. Or Castiel flew them with his non-fluffy cherub wings.

But it wouldn't be right. Dean remembers when they were kids, how much Sammy liked the stupid touristy stuff they so rarely ever got to do. Dad had always had a mission, an objective. The tourist-trap crap never fell into that. And then when it was just him and Sam, they had no time.

So he and Castiel will stop at every damned thing until they reach Jessica's grave, and then Dean will bury Sam's bracelet with her.

And then... Dean stares out the window. He doesn't know what he'll do then.

In his periphery, Dean sees Castiel stretch out a hand, reaching to touch him. He jerks away.

Castiel drops his hand and turns up the music.


	173. phone tag

**Title**: phone tag

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place just after 2.5 "Simon Says"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 195

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam attempts to screen Dean's calls for several days after "Simon Says." Understandably, this drives Dean nuts.

* * *

It takes Dean a couple days to catch on, which is embarrassing—but in his defense, it's been a hard few months.

Sam has answered every phone-call since they left Andy. Doesn't matter if it's his cell or Dean's: he answers them both. Even if he's already on the phone, he grabs Dean's cell out of his hand and answers.

"Sam!" Dean finally says, snatching his phone back. "What the fuck, dude?"

Ducking his head, Sam takes his sweet time replying, "I just… worry, is all."

Dean sighs. "Look, I get it." And he does. It's not that fun being an overprotective brother, but it's been his role to play for nearly thirty years now. Sam's had his brushes with it—Sue Ann and the heart-attack, and those first weeks after Dad.

"Just…" He waits until Sam looks up again. "Quit taking my phone, Sam."

"Okay." Sam nods.

The next time Bobby calls, Dean raises an eyebrow as Sam lunges for his phone. Sam jerks to a stop and lowers his hand, shuffling in place. "Hi, Bobby," Dean says.

Sam still stands too close, trying to listen in, but Dean's a master of compromising.


	174. payback

**Title**: payback

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place during 4.16(On the Head of a Pin)

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 150

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Alistair, "Your job is to craft my doom, so I am not sure how well I should wish you. But I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun." (Hannibal)

* * *

Dean had a lot of time in Hell, on and off the rack, to think about this moment. To fine-tune it to the smallest detail.

The one pleasure he had in Hell was imagining Alistair on the rack. Even when Castiel pulled him out, he still dreamed about Alistair screaming.

Part of him knows this is a bad idea. Walking into the room, pushing a cart of toys. Alistair bound and chained. Helpless.

Part of him knows he can't give in, can't go back. Shouldn't. That he'll change.

Part of him is begging for him to stop. To tell Castiel no. To leave, even if he has to fight an angel to do it.

Part of him, the part that Alistair trained and taught and tortured is whispering, _Yes_.

Part of him, that small dark part who picked up the razor and relished the blood, looks Alistair in the eye and smiles.


	175. birthday blues

**Title**: birthday blues

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean's first birthday(or Christmas) after Sam went to Stanford from SAM'S POV.

* * *

He can't sleep. Tosses and turns, kicks the covers off, picks them back up again.

Watches the clock turn—midnight. January twenty-fourth.

His phone is in his hand and he doesn't know how it got there. His finger is hovering over the first digit of Dean's number, if it hasn't been changed. Maybe it has. Maybe Dean doesn't want to talk him. Maybe Dean's angry or hurt, or too busy. Sam shouldn't bother him.

It's twelve o'one and Dean's twenty-three now.

He sets the phone next to him and closes his eyes. He really should get some sleep.

It's twelve ten and the phone is back in his hand, half a message texted, and he flips it shut.

No. Dean hasn't contacted him, even once, and Sam can't break the silence. He can do this on his own.

It's one o'clock in the morning and Sam throws his phone against the wall.

At sunrise, he picks it up and sets it on the desk, getting ready for the day.

As the clock clicks from eleven fifty-nine to midnight for the twenty-fifth, Sam whispers, "Happy birthday, Dean."


	176. the first cut is the deepest

**Title**: the first cut is the deepest

**Disclaimer**: not my character; title from Sheryl Crow

**Warnings**: slight AU; dark

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 520

**Prompt**: Dean Winchester, Fifteen men on a dead man's chest

* * *

You always remember your first. And the first is always the hardest.

o0o

When he wakes in his coffin, before remembering Sam and Dad and Azazel and his deal, Dean remembers how that nameless soul screamed. Begged and whimpered and sobbed.

And then the second, and the third, and they just kept getting easier. All the way down the line, they got easier and easier.

He slammed the door on Hell, sealing it up tight in a far corner of his mind, and focused on getting out of the coffin.

He had to find Sam.

o0o

Hell visited him in his dreams, with Alistair's voice and Alistair's touch, with Alistair's razor slick and cold in his hand.

The second soul had wept from the first cut, even after he cut out her eyes and tear-ducts.

The third—well, the third never made a sound. Not until the end when he finally sobbed and screamed and begged.

The fourth leered almost as well as Alistair and Dean had the satisfaction of tormenting him until he didn't know his own name.

Souls five and six were a couple when alive. He didn't know what exactly their sins had been, but it wasn't long before they turned on each other.

Soul seven had promised him the world, if he'd just lower the blade, swore that he had a ticket to Heaven if he let the poor bastard off the rack.

Souls eight, nine, and ten were monotonous and boring, but soul eleven took some skill to break.

Soul twelve... soul twelve had already been shattered, but Alistair said Lilith especially wanted her to suffer, so Dean spent a long time with that one.

Souls thirteen and fourteen weren't anything to write home about, though the fifteenth had been some major player on Earth. A tyrant or warlord or something. Alistair helped him with that one.

o0o

"Was it what you expected?" Alistair asks, as Dean examines his toys. "Down below… all those people you destroyed for me?"

Dean listens as Alistair prattles on, in love with the sound of his own voice. It's not new, almost comfortingly familiar.

If he can just fall back into his mindspace from Hell, maybe this won't break him completely.

"You were magnificent," Alistair purrs. "Even I didn't do so well with my first soul."

Dean flinches, his back to Alistair.

"You could've ruled Hell, boyo," Alistair says. "Given a few more centuries. The times, they are a-changing."

"Yeah," Dean replies, spinning around and stalking to Alistair, a syringe full of holy salt water. "Tormenter being tormented and all."

Alistair's smirk reminds him of sulfuric air and bone-handled knives, of flames and flayed skin. "No matter what happens, Dean," Alistair tells him, "know that I won."

Not even Alistair's screams can erase the dread that single sentence wells up in him.

o0o

You never forget your first.

His hand trembled around the handle. The cuts were shallow and quick. He wasn't crying, because Hell had already burned away all his tears.

The whole time, he whispered _Sorry_.

Until he didn't anymore.

o0o

The first is the hardest.

All the rest came easy.


	177. to ride a drop of rain

**Title**: to ride a drop of rain

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 425

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, When I Get Where I'm Goin' (Brad Paisley)

* * *

This isn't at all what he expected.

Of course, neither had Hell been.

o0o

It's like a park. With dinosaurs and mammoths and fucking fire-breathing dragons and winged unicorns.

_Unicorns_. Are real.

He even gets to ride one. It's awesome.

o0o

A lion shadows him, bigger than anything he's ever seen before.

"Uh, hey, boy," he says, swallowing hard. Nothing's tried to hurt him so far, not the T. rex or that megalodon in the ocean, or the saber-toothed tiger he wrestled with yesterday.

And this lion? Could eat them all and still have room for a brontosaurus. Or a dozen.

_Hello, Dean_,i the lion says without moving his mouth. _Whenever you are ready, I can show you the way._

"The way?" he asks. The lion crouches down and Dean can't resist—he buries his hands in that luxurious mane, threading his fingers in the thick, silky hair.

The lion purrs, even though, if Dean remembers correctly, the big cats can't.

_Spread your wings, Dean_,i the lion murmurs. He stands and smiles a cat-smile at Dean before leaping up, racing off into the sky.

o0o

He misses Sam. And Dad. Humans in general, actually. If this is Heaven, shouldn't someone be around somewhere?

Not that all the animals aren't cool, because they are. Lions laying down with lambs and all that. None of them seem to need to eat, which is awesome.

Shit, does he miss food, though. Pie. Onion rings. Cheeseburgers. He'd even take a glass of tap-water at this point, though he's not thirsty.

"I'm ready now!" he yells up at the clouds.

_Spread your wings_, the lion's voice tells him. _They are waiting for you_.

Dean glances around, at the herds of horses and unicorns, at the lion pride sunbathing, at the dolphins playing in the water. It's peaceful.

He takes a deep breath, crouches, and leaps into the air.

o0o

On the far side of the sky, the lion meets him. Leads him through a bustling crowd of people that all shift out of the way without seeming to, to a small neighborhood.

_Thank you, Dean, for your service_, the lion says, no longer larger than a mountain. He's now about the size of a Morgan horse. He gently rubs his head against Dean. _You are retired. Be well with those you love_.

The lion quietly pads off and Dean watches him go with bemusement.

The door of the closest house swings open and his mother steps out. "Dean," she calls.

He smiles and hurries to her, letting her lead him into the light.


	178. all things end

**Title**: all things end

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: could be wincest; could be gen. up to you

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 43

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, "We ride together. We die together." (Bad Boys II)

* * *

They look at each other, bathed in light as Lucifer rises. "I'm sorry," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Me, too."

Each has hold of the other, as close as they can be, and Lucifer howls, finally free.

"Sam," Dean whispers.

He whispers back, "Dean."


	179. forsaken

**Title**: forsaken

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic; dark

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 82

**Prompt**: Sam/Castiel, Ruby's knife

* * *

Castiel's vessel used to bleed at the slightest prick of the blade, but his real form—light and feathers and skin of will alone—was impervious to it.

That's no longer the case.

Chained by Sam's word, Castiel kneels, wings spread and stained by blood. Sam lightly traces the tip of the knife along Castiel's shoulder, following his spine down between the wings.

"How's that feel?" he asks.

Castiel shudders, eyes closed.

Sam slashes down, smiling as Castiel opens up for him.


	180. last freak standing

**Title**: last freak standing

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, there's another "generation" and Dean is the only survivor of them

* * *

When he lets himself go, just immerses himself deep in his mind, he can still feel them all. Spread out over the world, waiting.

He's the last of his generation, but there are others. Each generation has a winner, the last freak standing, and pretty soon there'll be one last game. The champions going head-to-head.

And the winner of that game… he shudders. That freak'll get an army to command and a throne to sit on, a scepter to hold and a crown to wear.

When Sam tells him about his visions, and then that bout of telekinesis, when he sees Max Miller and hears about Rosie, it isn't surprise that tightens his gut.

He thinks it might be despair.

He's buried it all so far down—Andy gets the drop on him, and then Ansem, and it takes every shred of willpower he has to not rip them apart.

That's not who he is. What he is. He's a hunter. He doesn't have—he's not…

_You've been the best so far, Deano_, Azazel had whispered in his mind while tormenting Sam aloud. _But little brother… how well do you think he'll do_?

It was locked too far down and he was trying too hard not to die, but Dean looked Azazel straight in his golden eyes and promised, _I'll kill you_.

That was his demon-given gift, after all. Look at a thousand scattered puzzle pieces and see how they all fit together. Glance at every variable and add them all up, every possible way things could go.

He smirked at Azazel while his insides were being shredded because in every outcome, Azazel died.

The only variation was who pulled the trigger.


	181. I will let you down

**Title**: I will let you down

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from "Hurt"

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 177

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/anyone, Hurt

**Notes**: written pre-5.1

* * *

Dean is not strong enough for this task. He knows it, Sam knows it—fucking God up in the fucking sky must know it.

But Castiel still looks at him like he's the one who hung the moon and dotted the cosmos with stars. Like Sammy used to, before puberty and monsters and Stanford and Cold Oak and Hell.

Before Dean let Alistair shatter him into a thousand pieces and put him back together wrong and weak and so bloodthirsty he broke the first Seal, unleashing Hell—and fucking _Lucifer_—into the world.

He can't do this. Can't fix it. He'll try until his last breath, and probably after, knowing his luck. Even with Sam at his side, finally almost like they were before Cold Oak and Hell, and even with Castiel, fallen but still fighting, he knows they can't win.

If Zachariah's right, the dickless bastard, then they aren't _supposed_ to win.

Dean's not strong enough, and neither's Sam or Castiel. He'll die failing.

But he'll die trying, and that's what being human is all about.


	182. untitled 3

**Title**: untitled

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: SPOILERS for 5.1

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 288

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He's in his old room in his old house in Lawrence. Watching Mom tuck him into bed, kiss his forehead, tell him angels are watching over him.

"Hello, Dean," he hears and turns, sees Castiel's vessel, eyes blue and bright.

"You're not Castiel," he says quietly.

The vessel, _Jimmy_, smiles. "I am," he replies solemnly. "And yet I am not."

Dean sighs and laughs mirthlessly, nodding his head. "You've been missed," he says, "You utter _bastard_."

"I am sorry," notCastiel murmurs, stepping closer, expression earnest. "I was… distracted."

He gently, moth-soft, rests his hand against Dean's cheek. "But I have returned," he says, skin and breath warm. "Have faith, Dean. Have faith and awaken rested, knowing that you are cradled in the palm of the Lord."

Dean jerks, sitting up on his bed, looking over at Sam. He breathes deeply, feeling like he actually got a good night's rest for the first time since… before Cold Oak. Damn, but it's been a hard couple'a years.

Sam's wide awake, of course, still replaying everything, still wracking that big brain of his for any way out.

"I should'a told you this," Dean says quietly, not looking at Sam. "But it's not your fault." He takes a deep, slow breath. "I broke the first Seal, Sammy. You couldn't have let Lucifer out if I hadn't, so…"

"I know," Sam says back just as quietly. "Me, too."

_Angels are watching over you_, Mom had told him every night of his life. _Angels are watching over you. _

He closes his eyes and actually prays, asking God to keep his brother safe.

When he dreams again, he's fishing at a small lake, Sam by his side, and the sun is high in the sky.


	183. the brightest star in the sky

**Title**: the brightest star in the sky

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: possible spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 115

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, Highlander

* * *

It comes down, of course, to them: white-eyed Sam, without a weapon in hand, and Dean, eyes as hazel as his mother's, Michael's sword clenched tight in his fist.

_There can be only one_, Heaven and Hell say together. _Lucifer or Michael, dark or light._

Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean.

Michael gazes at his once-favorited brother, who had been the most glorious of all the angels. Lucifer stares at the one who threw him from Heaven, who refused to stand with him unbowed.

Dean lets the sword fall. "Fuck that," he says.

Sam smiles, slow and sweet.

Together, they turn to face the demons and the angels, Michael and Lucifer side-by-side.


	184. patricide

**Title**: patricide

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future AU; possible blasphemy

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 666

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

God is

o0o

It's dawn. The sun is not rising. There is a shadow where the sun used to be. There is a shadow, deep and dark and swallowing up the whole wide world, and people are running, people are screaming, people are praying.

It's dawn. It's a cold dawn, blood on the air and in the water and soaking into the ground.

It's dawn, and the only light across the Earth is fire billowing from the deep.

o0o

God is the Father

o0o

Those who survive the first wave don't have long. Without the light of the sun, everything dies. The oceans freeze where they don't burn from hellfire; plants wither and air vanishes into dying lungs.

Everywhere, people beg for salvation. Wring their hands, hold their loved ones. Flee to the churches, to the synagogues, to the mosques, to the temples, to the mountains.

It doesn't matter where they go. A shadow has eaten the sun and Hell is scorching the Earth.

o0o

God is the Father and

o0o

Hunters don't pray. They hunt and they fight and they die, ripped apart by the first of all demons, by the Prince of Lies.

Everywhere, there is Death, on his pale horse, killing with a word and a glance, collecting souls for his lord, the one light left, the glorious and unforgiving MorningStar.

His brothers are by his side, Pestilence and Famine and War. It is the end, dawn with no sun, and a shadow takes the sky.

o0o

God is the Father(_why have you forsaken me?)_

o0o

Demons do not need air or water or shelter. Demons do not need food or sleep.

Demons take the Earth and rebuild it with the bones of all the life that came before(after) them, fashioned with malice and greed, and in the center, in Hell's gaping maw, there is a palace of black crystal and pale flawless ivory.

The palace is painted red with angelic blood.

o0o

God is the Father and fathers(_is it finished?)_

o0o

None of his demons dare speak his name. They whisper, mutter, whimper where they think he cannot hear.

He hears everything. He is everything. Earth is a stepping stone from Hell to the sky, and soon he will ascend that final plane and shatter the last of all resistance.

He is the MorningStar, the greatest and brightest, once favored and now feared.

_There is no God_, he tells his demons and devils and hordes of monsters salivating for Heaven's gold. _There is no God_. _There is only a lie, only an empty throne, no one home and no one to stop me_.

o0o

God is (_not_)

o0o

A new sun dawns, new creatures roam, and the demons plot amongst themselves, hoping to take power and make the world completely their own.

It isn't even a challenge when he turns them to blood and drinks them down.

He still has not taken Heaven. No one whispers anymore, and no one dares ask him why he's waiting.

o0o

God is (_nowhere and nothing, Father, my Father_)

o0o

He sits on what was once a beach. Water no longer exists, or sand, or salt air. The world is a barren wasteland.

Hell on Earth is nothingness. The monsters he reigns over no longer have any fun because there is nothing and nobody to torture.

The irony would make him chuckle if he remembered how.

o0o

God is (_gone, forgotten us, gone gone, my Father why?)_

o0o

He leaves the palace. Wanders over dust, searching for something eons gone. Eons out of reach. Too many mistakes, too many false friends trusted, too many wrong choices made and wrong paths trod.

He has not taken Heaven because the souls of those gone still reside there. All the souls not in Hell are in Heaven.

He will not take Heaven because there is hope left, so long as Dean is still there.

o0o

God is the Father and fathers always die.

o0o

_In Heaven, he waits. _

_Sam will come, he knows. Sam will come and Dean will open the gates wide. _


	185. Sam knows

**Title**: Sam knows

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for season 4

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: evil!Dean, Dean came back from Hell _wrong_.

* * *

Sam knows. Ruby told him, and the last message on Bobby's machine was from Dean, and Sam _knows_.

But Dean's back. Dean's alive. He's got an angel brand on his arm, and a psychic said—

It doesn't matter what a psychic said, because Sam's the only one who heard.

If you're not a Winchester, Death keeps you.

Sam knows. He knows lots of things, like how to kill demons with his mind, how to banish ghosts to whatever comes next, how to damn himself so well God will never consider forgiveness.

Sam knows what it smells like when an angel burns.

"Dean," he says quietly, holding the panicking crowd at bay. "We have to go."

Dean smiles as he turns to face Sam, blood and smoke coating him. Sam ignores the stench of sulfur. "Okay," Dean laughs, one last glance at the crowd. "But you sure I can't play a little more?"

"Yes," Sam tells him firmly.

When Dean still kills a couple on the way out, Sam doesn't bother chastising him.

He knows Dean can't help himself.


	186. With you and I defying gravity

**Title**: With you and I defying gravity, they'll never bring us down

**Fandom**: Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Wicked_.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated, though there could be some implied Dean/Sam and Michael/Lucifer, and a smidge of Michael/Dean, just for kicks

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 650

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He sleeps and doesn't dream of Hell. Instead, he sees a deep blue sky and cotton-candy clouds, and feels a spring breeze on his face.

_Dean_, he hears. _Dean_.

He turns and a human-shaped white light floats beside him.

_Hello, Dean_, the light says, voice deeper than thunder. _Welcome. It is time we spoke._

_I know who you are, _Dean whispers.

The light brightens in a smile. _I would be surprised if you didn't._ It moves closer, warm on his skin. _You were born for me, Dean. You have always known me_.

Dean backs away, slipping through a cloud. _I won't give you my body_, Dean tells it. _My body is my own._

_You gave your body to dozens of women and men. You gave your body to my sister Ananchel on her last night as a human. You would give it to Castiel, if he knew how to ask. You sacrificed it for your brother and would have for your father. _The light follows him, stopping even closer. He can see the smaller lights that form it. _You do not understand. I do not need to enter you, to wear you like Castiel does the once-body of James Novak. _

The light shifts and darkens, swelling out until it is Dean's size and shape, a perfect copy.

_I am you, Dean_, Michael tells him in his own voice. _You were born for me. I have been with you, to shield and protect you._

_I went to Hell,_ Dean hisses. _Awesome job_.

Michael smiles, small and sad. _An angel was needed to break the first Seal, Dean. A Fallen was needed to break the last._

Dean feels sucker-punched to the gut. _What?_

_Yes, Dean_, Michael says quietly, coming close enough for Dean to feel his breath. _You were born for me and your brother was born for mine. _He lifts his hand and gently touches Dean's face. _I don't need your permission, Dean. I am already in you. _He leans forward and Dean lets him come, too shocked to respond. _You always knew, Dean_.

When their lips touch, Dean wakes, tears in his eyes.

He feels, now, the spirit within, the knowledge he never learned, the experiences he never lived.

Michael. The highest, most powerful of archangels.

_Zachariah does not understand, nor does Raphael_, Michael whispers, stretching to fill Dean completely. _Lucifer is wooing your brother because he is temptation, but he does not require Samuel's consent._

"Even after everything," Dean says, looking over at the extra bed, "I'm not gonna kill Sam."

He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow. How the fuck did this become his life?

_I cannot kill my brother either,_ Michael tells him. _I could not then and I shall not now. Zachariah and his garrisons believe in the old rhetoric, but I have lived in you for seventy years. I stayed with you through Alistair's torture and Alistair's tutelage. I felt your pure, undying love for your father; I felt your hope and adoration of your brother. I am no longer God's weapon, Dean. I am no longer Michael alone, no longer Michael only. I am a part of you, as you are a part of me._

"What?" Dean mumbles into the pillow.

_We can never be separated_, Michael whispers, and Dean feels him in every part of his body. _We can never be undone from each other._

Dean sits up and rubs at his eyes. "Oh, shit," he mutters. "I miss the old days, before all you fucking angels."

Michael chuckles. _We need to find our brothers, Dean_, he says after a moment, sobering.

"I thought you don't need my permission," Dean snarks.

_I do not_, Michael tells him. _I ask because we should not be eternally at odds._

Dean glances over at the empty bed, untouched by a companion who is not there.

"Yeah," he says. "Let's go find the stupid kids."


	187. There's never a winner of the quickdraw

**Title**: There's never a winner of the quickdraw

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Big&Rich.

**Warnings**: AU for season 4; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 350

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam+Dean (no wincest please), Sam went to hell in Dean's place and lasted two weeks

* * *

No one expected Lilith to look into Sam's eyes, that night Dean's deal came due, and actually agree to a trade.

And when Sam Winchester gets to Hell, the line to carve him up is almost out the door.

o0o

"Now, your daddy," Alistair drawls the first day, tracing the silver dagger along Sam's flank. "He never screamed. And your mama—my, what a mouth she had. Even I'd never heard some'a those curses before."

Sam bites all the way through his tongue but he never makes a sound.

o0o

(Dean Winchester is carving a bloody swath through everything topside and Alistair cackles while Sammy cries.)

o0o

"Poor little Sammy," Alistair murmurs, wrapping himself completely around what's left of Sam's tattered soul. "You only ever tried to do the right thing. The best you could." He licks Sam's skin and it flakes off.

Alistair gives the demons one cut each. Sam begs for the pain to stop.

It doesn't.

o0o

No one expected Lilith to smile and amble over, press her lips to Sam's and whisper into his mouth, _A deal's a deal, Sammy-boy. This time, no take-backs_.

o0o

No angels come for Sam Winchester. Alistair marks the days on his ribcage and says, "You can make all this pain stop, you know." He offers the razor, lets the firelight glint off it. "Three little letters. One syllable."

Sam spits blood on his cheek. Alistair smiles.

o0o

On the day Sam Winchester mutters _yes_ through broken teeth and bleeding gums, it rains topside.

He's been dead(again) for less than two days. In Hell, it's been about two weeks. Maybe. No one really keeps score. Just like there was no time in Eden , so there is no time in Hell.

Time's relative anyway. What matters is this:

Alistair says, stepping back from his pretty painting of Sam's entrails, "All this can stop."

And Sam says, though his voice is gone with screaming, "Yes."

o0o

No angel comes for Sam Winchester. And when Lilith is killed, Lucifer walks free from his cage, clothed in Winchester skin.

His brother meets him at the doorway, clothed in nearly the same.


	188. let it end here

**Title**: let it end here

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 80

**Point** **of** **view**: second

**Prompt**: Dean & Sam, too late for apologies

* * *

"I am sorry," he says, and you know it's him, still in there somewhere, through the sulfur and brimstone and flames. "I didn't mean for this."

You nod. "Me, too," you say. "But that doesn't change anything."

_Allow me,_ Michael whispers. _Sleep, Dean._

You could fight it. Could stay awake and watch your little brother burn the world. The MorningStar in Sammy's skin, scorching the Earth.

Instead, you surrender and pray only that Lucifer will let Sammy sleep, too.


	189. we're just like, hey, ain't we, Dad?

**Title**: we're just alike, hey, ain't we, Dad -- I wanna do everything you do

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Rodney Atkins

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean, walking in his father's shoes

* * *

Dean knew every time he met one of his father's old contacts—couldn't really be called _buddies_, because Dad had none of those since Mom died—that they looked at him and found him wanting. Not as fast, not as strong, not as good—too damned pretty to actually be a hunter.

It was easier when Dad was with him, but usually Dad sent him alone, and they would look at him and leer and mutter like he was deaf, like he was _stupid_.

But Dad knew he was good enough. Dad might not have said it, but he wouldn't send Dean alone if he didn't think Dean could do it.

Dean knew he'd never fill Dad's shoes, but he'd make a name for himself, in his own right. And all those blind old fools would see then.

(They did.)


	190. You'll never know how much I love you

**Title**: You'll never know how much I love you

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Mona Van Duyn.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5; future!fic AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 400

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for eilonwy's birthday, to the prompt of _Author's choice. But not slash, and with Sam_

* * *

The world is on fire, everything that is good and right smoldering to ash.

Everything is in his grasp.

It shouldn't be like this. Dean wouldn't like it, would call him foolish and kid and say, We can fix this, Sammy. Sure we can.

But Dean's not here anymore. He let Michael ride him to kill Lucifer and Sam watched as Michael burned Dean up from the inside until there was nothing left. No Dean anymore.

Dean's gone. For good. Castiel actually cried when he told Sam.

Sam's eyes are dry. Smoke blinds him, but he doesn't have any tears left to cry. Not since Lucifer first approached him

Everything in his grasp. Castiel stands next to him, wings soot-stained and eyes weary. He would not like this, the fallen angel murmurs.

No, Sam agrees. He wouldn't.

The angels killed Dean. Michael killed Dean. Dean decided to go on the offensive, to kill Lucifer before he set up shop in Sam, and he succeeded at that. Michael attacked Lucifer while he still wore whoever that poor bastard was, Plan B. and Michael's glory scorched Dean into nothingness.

He's not even in Heaven. He's nowhere. He did what the angels wanted, what God wanted, and his reward is nonexistence.

Sam was born for Lucifer. To join with him, to become him, to house his glory and power. Sam was born for Lucifer but Lucifer died before ever touching him except in a dream.

Lucifer is dead.

Sam isn't. Sam is still Azazel's chosen, the boy born to be the LightBringer, and he is beyond fury, beyond despair—he is empty. Everything is in his grasp, clutched between his bloodstained fingers, and there is no one who can stop him.

Michael is dead. He killed himself when he killed Lucifer and Dean.

God is dead. No one can find him, and Sam would just destroy him if they did, anyway.

Sam, Castiel murmurs.

Sam is dead. He died with his brother. Now he's just an empty vessel and he wants the world to join them in nothingness.

Sam, Castiel repeats. This does not honor his memory.

He's not here, Sam says, and whether he means himself or Dean is anyone's guess. The world is on fire and Dean's not here to put it out. The world is on fire and Sam hopes he'll burn himself away.

He takes a breath. It burns.


	191. accusations in the air

**Title**: accusations in the air

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 3

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 130

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam kept Dean's leather jacket after Dean went to Hell but he never wore it

* * *

It lays on the backseat, accusing him of being a horrible brother.

_You could have saved him,_ it says. If you'd tried harder. _Why couldn't you have been better?_

He turns music he doesn't actually like up loud, then louder.

_What did he ever ask?_ it says, and he hears it clearly through the song. _He traded his soul for you and you let him go to Hell. What kind of selfish brat are you?_

"Shut up," he mutters, glaring into the rearview. "I didn't ask him to do that. I wish he hadn't!"

_Well, he did_, it hisses. _He did and now he's gone. Because of you._

Dean's amulet burns against his skin. Dean's car roars around him. But he can't touch Dean's goddamn leather jacket


	192. knights in faded levis

**Title**: knights in faded levis

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 550

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Wee!Chester. John slowly realizes that Dean has gone hungry while he was away on his last hunt. He makes it up to his son.

* * *

John's two days late and pissed as all get-out because Travis'd said it'd be an easy hunt, in and out, a day max. Everything that could go wrong _did_ go wrong and the groceries had been on their last legs when he left.

He should've stocked up but his last paycheck was late, too, fuck it all, and while the hunt was supposed to be easy, people were still dying.

The excuses sound hollow in his own ears. None of that'll mean jack-shit to Dean and Sammy.

Well, maybe to Dean, the little peace-keeper. All of eleven and trying to take care of them both, making sure Sam does his schoolwork and doesn't bother John while he's researching or tired from a fifteen-hour workday. Cooks when they have the supplies for it, easy things though John's noticed he's slowly getting more adept at making things taste restaurant-like.

Shit, now John feels even worse for being so goddamned late.

o0o

Sam's sacked out on the floor, army-men spread around him. Dean's standing beside him, one hand on the shotgun leaning against the wall.

He waits until John says, "Hey, Dean, you think Sam's ready to toss around a football?" to relax, shoulders slumping.

"No, Dad," he answers quietly.

John tries to smile and knows Dean can see right through it. "Let's get ya'll to bed, alright?" he says and Dean nods.

o0o

In the morning, John makes breakfast: scrambled eggs, slices of bacon, toast with strawberry jelly.

The fridge and pantry had been bare, and John wanted to slam his head into the wall. So fucking stupid. Mary would kick his ass up and down the block.

Dean's up first, of course; ever since the fire, kid's slept like a cat. He stares at breakfast, then John, and asks, "How'd the hunt go?"

No demands of what took so long, of why he didn't come home, why he left them without any supplies. Just accepting that John had his reasons.

He wants to slam his head into the wall again.

"Fine," he answers, serving Dean a plate. "Took longer than expected."

Dean nods seriously. Sam bounces in, chattering that John's back, that Daisy in his class has a puppy, that Dean's taking him to the park for popsicles today.

Sam chows his way through breakfast without ever letting up on the stream of information, and John knows that Dean must have treated his absence like a game. He wonders who won.

Dean slowly savors each bite of his meal, each sip of the fresh milk. Sam clearly didn't go hungry, which means that Dean must've.

Mary wouldn't have kicked his ass, John knows. She'd have fucking buried him.

"Well then," he says, clearing away the dishes. "Let's get to that park."

He promises himself to not leave the boys again, to always keep groceries, at least the non-perishables, around.

"I'm glad you're back, Dad," Dean tells him quietly as they follow Sam out the door. He doesn't say that he was frightened, or that he thought John had died, or a dozen other things he has the right to.

Mary would have his head. He'd deserve it.

"Me, too, kiddo," he says.

(Three weeks later, Bobby calls with a hunt that just can't wait. John leaves Dean a hundred in cash and a stocked pantry.)


	193. goodbye said the sad man

**Title**: goodbye said the sad man

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic; spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 235

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: author's choice(/author's choice), Dean's leather jacket

* * *

After everything is finished, all that's left of Dean is a black Chevy Impala, a golden amulet, and a leather jacket.

Sam puts the charm around his neck, shrugs the coat on, and slides into the driver's seat.

He's done this before—twice, in fact. That still doesn't make it any easier.

o0o

Castiel shows up a couple times. He doesn't wear Jimmy Novak anymore; he doesn't have to. Sam can see his true form and hear his true voice.

Lucifer still whispers to him, sometimes. And so does Michael.

Sam tells them to go fuck each other till kingdom come because that's not today.

o0o

There wasn't enough left to burn or bury. Michael hollowed Dean out, in a blaze of glory that lit up the Heavens and sealed the gates of Hell.

The demons are locked away and the angels have gone home, but there are still ghosts and goblins and all the rest.

Pretty soon, Castiel leaves him alone. Everyone does.

o0o

Sam honestly hadn't thought he could die. He survived the battle between Michael and Lucifer, he survived God's arrival, the selfish fucker—after that, what could kill him? What would dare?

It's a simple poltergeist. He's gotten sloppy.

He's wearing Dean's leather jacket and Dean's amulet is warm against his skin and Dean's impala is parked out front, and he doesn't fight Death, not anymore.


	194. you are beautiful by light of the moon

**Title**: you are beautiful by light of the moon

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 195

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean and/or Sam, he doesn't dream anymore. (But maybe there's still hope. Author's choice. :) )

* * *

It's dark here. Quiet. He thinks back to Sammy and Dad and the Impala, when they were tired, yeah, and there was almost always arguing, no matter how much he begged them to stop, but they were together, the three of them, saving people and hunting things.

Those days were good. Before Sammy left—those days were the best of his life.

Now's not so bad, though. Now he's got solitude and memories. No sulfur or gunpowder. No blood. No salt and holy water, no black eyes or yellow eyes or red eyes or white eyes.

He hates white eyes. And black eyes, and red eyes, but yellow eyes most of all.

There are no knives here. No smoke, or flames, or silky words purred with a familiar, beloved voice.

There's just quiet darkness without dreams, without nightmares, without sleepless nights on the run, hiding from demons and angels and the Prince of Lies clothed in once-adored skin. (Still adored skin. He knows why Sammy said yes.)

_Peace_, Michael whispers. _Have hope, beloved. Our brothers may yet return to us. All is not lost._

(He knows why Sammy said yes.

It's the same reason he did.)


	195. from Hell

**Title**: from hell

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**:

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_You know what your sons are,_ Alistair purred, slicing John's torso. _What they'll do to the world._

John kept quiet. Alistair said the same thing every day. Honestly, John was a little disappointed in the Grand Inquisitor, Hell's chief tormentor.

But today, if day it was, Alistair paused, head cocking. Then, cackling, he turned back to John and leaned in close. _Your boy Dean_, he whispered, lips right by John's ear. _Sweetheart, he just made a deal. A year and then he's ours._

John spoke for the first time in Hell. _What? Why would he—Azazel._

_Yes,_ Alistair said. _One of Azazel's little experiments killed your Sammy. He set a toe in our border and then got whisked back out._

John closed his eyes, head dropping.

_Oh, don't worry, Johnny_, Alistair cooed. _We'll take special care of your Dean. If you say yes, if you take my razor, you can be the one._

Growling, John straightened. _I know my sons_, he said. _And I know the plans in place for them_. He strained, ignoring the pain as insignificant.

_What are you doing?_ Alistair asked, shocked for the first time John could recall.

John fell off the rack and rose to his feet. _You should know, Alistair_, John said, _that my boys never follow the rules._

Every being in Hell felt the door open and all those capable rushed to it, John among them.

He couldn't stop Alistair from getting his hands on Dean, but he could take some satisfaction from Azazel before finally seeing Mary again.


	196. of him

**Title**: of him

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 95

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam and Castiel, "You're going to stay, right?"

* * *

After... after the war, after Lucifer and Michael have destroyed each other, after Hell and Heaven are both in ruins and Earth almost barren, after God has stepped back into reality and begun anew, Sam turns to Castiel and asks, "You're going to stay, right?" When Castiel remains silent, Sam continues, "You and a necklace, that's all I have of him. Even his Impala is gone. Please stay."

Castiel looks him in the eye, gaze ancient and weary, and replies, "Of course I will."

Sam is all Castiel has of him besides a necklace, too.


	197. redefining godhood

**Title**: redefining godhood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5; AU, I assume

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Trickster & author's choice, the Trickster turns out to be God

* * *

"You have got to be shitting me," is the first thing Dean says.

"Nope," HE grins, hands spread wide.

Dean shakes his head, sharing a disbelieving look with Sam.

Castiel, of course, has already bowed low, eyes on the floor. "My Lord," he murmurs into the marble. "Father."

"Oh, get up, kiddo," HE says. "We've got a mess to straighten, a war to win. No time to waste."

"You asshole," Dean bursts out, lunging forward. Only Sam grabbing him keeps Dean from trying to throttle HIM. "Where the fuck have you been? You didn't notice the fucking _end of the world_?"

"Dude," HE scoffs. "I'm ineffable. You can't question me."

Dean scoffs in turn. "I can question you all I want, you self-righteous prick. _I_ have free will."

"Yeah," HE says. "Which _I_ gave you."

Now Sam asks, voice low and cold, "Why did you kill Dean all those times?"

HE shrugs. "You had to see, Sam, what you could become." HIS expression is earnest. "It kept you from going down that path when he went to Hell."

"You're not the Sunday school God, are you?" Dean mutters, shaking his head again.

"Father," Castiel says, bringing all attention back to him as he rises to his feet. "What are your orders?"

HE rubs his hands together, grinning. "Let's go bring Lucifer back into the fold and kick Zachariah's sanctimonious ass."

Sam and Dean share another glance. Castiel blinks. God cackles.


	198. that little light of mine

**Title**: that little light of mine

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: somewhat crackish

**Pairings**: Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 325

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, God's always watching (over you)

* * *

_Angels are watching over you_, Mama had said. She said nothing about God.

But ever since Castiel pulled him out of Hell and told him that God had work for him, Dean can't help wondering about the dude.

Like, for starters, is he the Old Testament _go kill your neighbor and all his sheep_ God, or the New Testament _love your neighbor as yourself_ God? 'cause those are two very different guys, and Dean isn't really sure he can believe in either one.

And now, wherever he goes, he keeps seeing this light, this bright, burning light, and he swears it's laughing at him. It doesn't feel evil, like Ruby or Alistair did after returning from the Pit. It feels pure and perfect, like Castiel or even that douche Zachariah magnified by a billion and one.

It's gotta be God, and he doesn't know what to do about that.

Well, he does wonder why it hasn't smote him yet. After all, tempting an angel, not to mention _fucking_ an angel on the _Sabbath_, has got to be worthy of smiting. But the light just twinkles merrily at him when he goes to get coffee the morning after, and Castiel smiles at him, all joyful and glorious, and Dean just really has no idea what to think.

He considers asking Sam, but they have an agreement to not mention any extracurricular activities involving angels and fornication, so that's out.

Or, well, not _out_ out, but whatever.

_Angels are watching over you_, Mama told him. And Castiel has said he's very close to finding God.

So, that light can't be God. Castiel would know, wouldn't he?

Yeah, of course he would. That light is probably just a lifetime (two lifetimes) of hunting monsters finally getting to him.

Yeah. Of course. That glimmering little light isn't the Old or New Testament God. It's just Dean going crazy.

(The light twinkles even brighter in laughter, but Dean ignores it.)


	199. forgive me my sins

**Title**: forgive me my sins

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: a smidge of implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, "I talked you into rebelling against heaven. Not sure that's something that can be forgiven."

* * *

_Forgive me_, he whispers, clutching the small golden charm Sam gave him two lifetimes ago. It is cold against his skin and he slips the cord back over his neck.

_Forgive me,_ he says louder, straightening. _You shouldn't—I shouldn't—_ He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his hair.

He freezes when his fingers touch blood. Slowly lowers his hand.

_I don't deserve your forgiveness,_ he admits, closing his eyes. _And you deserved better than me for back-up. You should'a had every angel in Heaven coverin' you. You should'a had Michael._ He inhales, exhales, mutters, _But you had me, and I'm sorry for that._

He pauses, just stands there and remembers, regrets, that stupid fucking angel who went and died a second time for the fuck-up hunter who never deserved to be saved.

_I just…_ he murmurs, _I talked you into rebelling against heaven. Not sure that's something that can be forgiven._

_He chose, Dean,_ Sam says, limping up beside him. _He chose you._ He places a trembling hand on Dean's shoulder and adds, _We have to go._

Dean nods. _I know_. He thinks _forgive me my sins_ but doesn't say it aloud, and he follows Sam down the hill.


	200. the lament of Jocasta

**Title**: the lament of Jocasta

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 190

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: author's choice, "Never forgive me, never forget me."

**Notes**: title refers to Greek mythology

* * *

She would ask his forgiveness, if she could. She'd wrap her arms around his neck and breathe in his scent, would clutch him close and pray for morning to never come, because when he's dreaming, she can hold him again. But when he wakes, when his eyes open and he looks at the disgusting motel ceiling, he knows that she's dead, gone, burnt up days and weeks and months and years ago, a lifetime lost in flames, and then he's grown, getting dressed and brushing his teeth, yelling "Up and at 'em," and she's nothing anymore.

She's nothing but a ghost he'd hunt, and he's not her little boy anymore. He's the soldier she never wanted him to be, and his brother (oh, he'd been so little the last time she held him) is miles taller than that baby she remembers kissing, and John, dear sweet Johnny—

She would ask forgiveness of them all, for doing this. For causing this.

She would ask, but none of them would forgive her, because she knows they don't think she did anything wrong in dealing with Azazel.

They've all done the same.


	201. attaining the pinnacle

**Title**: attaining the pinnacle

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic; spoilers from season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 85

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean & Sam, hiking in the mountains

* * *

"We should have done this years ago," Dean says, staring out over the valley.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, looking up into the clear sky.

"So." Dean turns to face him, a small smile curving his lips. "You ready?"

Sam glances back at the way they've come, strewn with angelic and demonic corpses, all the way down to the foot. "As I'll ever be," he answers.

What comes next, neither of them knows; but standing side by side on the pinnacle, clinging to each other, they let go.


	202. the sound of silence screaming

**Title**: the sound of silence screaming

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place during season 1

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam & Dean (or Sam/Dean), even now Dean still can't forgive Sam for choosing Stanford over him

* * *

He knows that one day Sam will grow tired of this crusade, even if Sam won't admit it. He knows that Sam will go back to Stanford, pick right up where he left off, and be that perfect _normal_ student again.

Sam hasn't apologized once. Hasn't asked Dean to forgive him for leaving, for abandoning them both, him and Dad. Sam doesn't think he did anything wrong.

And maybe he's right, Dean admits, watching Sam search through endless webpages for the one that'll break the case wide open. Maybe leaving was what was best for Sammy at the time. Maybe he needed to try something new.

Dean knows he's never getting out of hunting. Really, neither of them are. But he knows that Sam will try again, and then maybe a third time. For being a near-genius, Sam is blindingly stupid sometimes.

Sam hasn't apologized once. Dean doesn't ever expect him to. He'll just brush it off if the kid ever tries, because Sam won't really mean it. He can't.

And Sam would say that it doesn't matter, but they both know that it does. Just like they both know that even if Dean could utter the words _I forgive you for leaving _he wouldn't mean it, either.


	203. this is how it ends

**Title**: this is how it ends

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 5.4

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Future!Sam, He wishes he could be forgiven for saying "Yes."

* * *

Late at night, when Lucifer stretches out on a worn blanket and pulls a beat-up leather coat over himself, Sam shares his memories.

They dream of flying through the cosmos, one of thousands, full and complete and legion. They dream of lucky charms and thundercats and a big brother who was cool and perfect.

_One day_, Lucifer always tells Sam, as they rest together deep in Sam's mind. _One day, he will come back to you and beg you for absolution. He will realize he has been wrong and will crawl to you, so very_ _sorry_.

Sam knows that won't happen. He knows that, if anything, he will crawl to Dean and sob at his feet.

And he knows that Dean will forgive him. Knows that Lucifer will take advantage of that, because Dean's is the last outpost of resistance in the world.

_Forgive me_, he whispers, trying to forget what his weakness has done. _Dean, forgive me._

(He's not awake when Lucifer kills his brother, but he still feels it, and he buries himself completely in dreams of what they once had been.)


	204. when history is done with us

**Title**: when history is done with us

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 150

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean & Sam, remembering when it was simple

* * *

They used to worry about homework and the right clothes, hiding bruises and scars, the specter of CPS hanging over their heads.

Then it was Sam with his normal life, Dean trying to keep Dad from leaving too, and then it was looking for Dad, Dean and Sam together again.

Then it was Dad dying, Sam dying, Dean dying and going to Hell.

Now it's God and Satan, the whole world in the balance.

It used to be so simple when they were children. Now, with Michael's wings and Lucifer's fire, it's so fucking complicated Dean just wants to howl.

Instead he looks at Sam and says, "You ready for this?"

Sam nods.

Some things still are simple, and when it comes down it, God and the devil and everything else be damned, he's choosing Sam.

"Let's do it," Sam says and together they step into the last battle of existence.


	205. east of the pearly gates

**Title**: east of the pearly gates

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; somewhat crackish

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam, sometimes he thinks he remembers what it was like when he was dead

* * *

Sometimes, he dreams about a gate. It's a perfect white he's never seen while awake, and there's this guy sitting in front of it, with a desk and scattered papers, and wire-frame glasses.

"Name, please," the man says without glancing up.

"I-" Sam starts, glancing around. There's clouds and clouds and more clouds, the sky a blue deeper than the sea, and there's a palace in the distance. "Is this Heaven?"

The man looks up and his eyes widen as he blanches whiter than the gate. "Sam Winchester!" he exclaims, fingers clutching around his pen so hard it cracks. "You can't come in here!"

He knows that it's a dream. He can't have actually gotten to the Gates of Heaven and been turned away. It would explain a lot, but surely not…

(When Castiel hesitates in shaking his hand, he doesn't know if it's just the custom that throws him off or Castiel not wanting to touch him. But when he talks to Lucifer, suddenly everything makes sense.)


	206. They'll remember my name

**Title**: They'll remember my name

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Muriel Rukeyser

**Warnings**: mentions of pedophilia; gore; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 725

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

You will remember this moment years later, when you're older and wiser, been to Hell and pulled out, saved the world and stopped the apocalypse. You will remember holding the gun, heavy and hot, hearing the roar—it'll be so much smaller later—and know that this choice changed everything.

Blood is so red. You stare at the droplets splattered on the wall and you lower the gun. You can hear nothing—silence echoes in your bones.

You will know, in those years to come, that this is where it all started.

But right now, there's just you and a smoking gun, just you gasping for breath and a cooling corpse, just you and a dead man.

Even years later, with time and knowledge, you never regret this moment. Staring at him, you know that he had to die. It's the only way.

You will recall, later, that he bleeds all over you as you move him. That his stench makes you gag and you choke down vomit as you burn him.

You remember later that the smoke clings to you for days and Sammy asks why you smell, while Dad just nods.

But now, lowering the gun, sure in yourself and knowing that you are right, you don't realize the importance of this moment. You don't know that this is a turning point, that this choice catches the attention of both Heaven and Hell.

Now, you just know it is necessary. So you kill him and you salt him and you burn him. You don't look back and you don't regret, and you never think about him again.

In Hell, the first soul you torture, the first mass of quivering flesh you stick Alistair's razor into, wears your first kill's face. Alistair cackles while you don't even pause.

After you're out, angelic brand on your arm, you move on, past Hell and Alistair's icy touch, and you don't think about when you crawled off the rack, when you offered Alistair your throat and your belly, when you turned your back on a lifetime of learning.

But you don't know about all this. You don't know that Michael watches you kill him, that Azazel chortles.

You don't know that he is a test, or that you pass with flying colors. You don't know that this moment, this choice, cements Michael's claim on your body and Azazel's determination to break you down.

Right now, all you know is that he stares at your baby brother too closely, that he licks his lips and strokes his cock, imagines Sammy on his lap, and that—for that, he has to be punished.

So you punish him, for Sammy and yourself and all the other boys he might've hurt. You don't believe in Heaven and you don't care about Hell. Right now, all you know is protecting Sammy. Michael is only a half-heard tale from Pastor Jim and Lucifer is well-turned phrase. Neither is real.

What's real is warm blood and sightless eyes and cooking flesh. What's real is Sammy and Dad waiting for you. What's real is the gun in your hand and murder in your heart for the monster that dared think about touching Sam.

This moment, looking in his eyes and choosing to kill him, changes everything. This moment, pulling the trigger of what will become your favorite gun in later years, is when Michael turns to Gabriel and says, _I choose that one, brother_. This moment, not saying a word as the man begs for his life because he's got kids at home and a pregnant wife and he never meant any harm, is when Azazel smirks at Lilith and says, _My money's on Sammy Winchester, darlin'. _

But you don't believe in Heaven and you don't care about Hell. You believe in salt and silver, in leather and guns, in Dad's strength and Sam's innocence.

You're fifteen, and when you kill him you change the world.

You don't know it, but this moment, when you watch his brain-matter paint the wall—you'll remember it later as Michael and Lucifer fight to a standstill amid the bones of a city, Heaven and Hell at an impasse.

But you don't know it yet. You're still just looking after your little brother, like Dad's always told you, and you never regret it.

(Sometimes, you follow orders too well.)


	207. when hope fades

**Title**: when hope fades

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic; spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: lightly implied Sam/Castiel, oneside Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 520

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean is forced to let Michael into him, in order to save Sam. Once Michael's done, Sam and Cas look after what's left of Dean.

* * *

When the blinding light fades, Dean's on the floor and not moving.

Even though he's got at least two broken ribs and can't use his right hand, Sam's by him in an instant, gasping, "Dean, Dean, be okay, please, after everything, Dean—"

Castiel is next to him, nothing more than a gentler glow of Michael's incandescence, since Jimmy Novak got burned away in the battle, and Sam asks, "Will he be okay?"

He hears Castiel's voice echo in his mind: _I do not know_.

o0o

In the hospital, a nice, useless doctor tells Sam that he has no idea if Dean will ever wake up. Sam collapses right there and comes to three days later in the bed next to his brother.

Anna is in the chair by the window, talking quietly with Missouri, when Sam tries to speak and croaks instead.

Missouri gets him a glass of water and he asks, "C'stiel?"

Anna smiles at him gently. "He's out trying to find a body," she tells him. "He won't leave Dean now."

o0o

They get a house, him and Castiel. After Sam's all healed up and able to move without wanting to whimper, they get a house right down the street from Missouri.

Dean's awake, she says. The doctors say he isn't, but Missouri tells them quietly, "He's dreamin'. Seein' the past, imagining the future. Your brother's in there, Sam."

Castiel rests his hand on Dean's forehead. He no longer looks like Jimmy Novak—he asked God for a favor, he explains once, after he's discovered Sam's emergency stash of beer, just in case Dean wakes up and wants one. He asked God for a favor, and God agreed, so now Castiel has his very own body, unique and imperfectly human.

"Just in case," Castiel slurred, slumped against Sam and crying. "Just in case he wakes up and wants me. Will he want me, Sam? I love him so much."

"Yeah," Sam had said, arms wrapped around him. "He'll want you, Cas."

o0o

Sam managed to recreate a hospital room in their house, with all the machines needed to monitor Dean. He's got a feeding tube and a catheter and everything else, and sometimes Sam just sits next to him, holding his hand, talking about all the stupid shit they did as kids, all the stupid shit they'll do when Dean comes back to himself and quits dreaming.

"C'mon, Dean," he says through the tears one day. "Quit sleepin' your life away. We won, man. _We won_, but this sure as fuck don't feel like a victory."

Dean doesn't react. Missouri tells them he's still there, still watching the past and creating the future, but he doesn't hear her when she calls. Whatever Michael did, there's a disconnect between his soul and his body, and he's the only one who can fix it.

When Sam asks, "Michael or Dean?" she answers, "Either."

Castiel closes his eyes, head bowing, leaning in towards Sam.

It's hopeless, because Dean's the one dreaming and Michael burned with Lucifer, into a light brighter than the stars, and is gone forever.

Which means Dean is, too.


	208. It wasn't supposed to end like this

**Title**: It wasn't supposed to end like this  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Patricia Young

**Warnings**: future!fic; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: Dean/Castiel, possibly implied wincest, if you choose to take it as such

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 585

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, apocafic a la **Ruin and Beauty** by Patricia Young

* * *

He can see the proof everywhere, in the ruin of cities. People dying where they stood, no warning, no chance. Breakfast dishes left, cars in the street, bodies lying where they fell.

Too many to bury, and too many to burn. He expects spirits to come after him, but not a single one ever does. They have better things to do, now.

(Lucifer's gathering an army to storm Heaven. Any soul not there is gangpressed in. That's what Cas says, and he'd know, right? If anyone left on Earth does, it's him.)

There are survivors, of course. There are always survivors of the massacre, of the earthquake or volcano or hurricane. Always those who grieve and mourn, and try to bury the dead. To sing the memories of those gone to the stars.

He isn't exactly their leader—he never sets out to command the group, at least. But word gets around, even now, and people flock to him as one who knows.

(He doesn't, not really. He's got an angel on his shoulder and one in his blood, but he's still just a man. Just as lost and confused as everyone else, except he knew that it was coming. His whole life, he thinks sometimes, he knew.)

It isn't long before nature begins reclaiming the bones of the cities, grass through pavement, vines up skyscrapers, wolves and panthers prowling through the ruins, coyotes sniffing at the edges.

He leaves them to it because survivors should stick together. If they can make a living out of this calamity, so be it.

(The creatures stay away from his group, the terrified survivors who flinch at shadows and cry at dawn. There are only sixty-six so far. He hopes more will come. None are younger than sixteen and none older than fifty-seven. They need more. They can't be all that's left. They just can't be.)

Castiel stays the night, sometimes, taking breaks from his quest. He always shows when Dean calls, those few times he's cornered with no other way out. They don't talk any more than they ever did, but when it all gets to be too much, the world on his shoulders—still and always, it seems—having someone who doesn't expect miracles is a balm.

Cas was there, after all. Back when Dean was just a man without everything depending on him. Cas was there, the only left who was.

(_Tell me your name_, he hears the Star of Morning whisper in his dreams. _Tell me your name, my dear. Do you know what he calls you, this body that feels like home, this mind that sings the same song as my own?_)

Whenever he stops to think, to remember, Dean recalls the old days, before Stanford and Dad and everything spiraled out of control. He tries to see that Sammy in his mind, young and idealistic and so hopeful.

When things get really depressing, those memories are the only thing that keeps him going.

(_He calls you brother_, the Prince of Lies tells him. _He calls you brother and he loves you oh so very much._)

He's got an angel on his shoulder and one in his blood, and he's the only person the surviving humans trust.

"Don't worry, Dean," Castiel always tells him before returning to his quest. "I have faith in you."

(He tries to ignore Lucifer, wearing that face and that voice, and remember what used to be, back when they were young and innocent, back before they ended the world.)


	209. There is not another like you

**Title**: There is not another like you in the world

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Gilgamesh_.

**Warnings**: AU future!fic; character death; spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 805

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Staring down at Dean's empty shell, at what Michael left behind when he returned to Heaven, Sam's eyes were dry, and his mouth, his fingers clenched into useless fists.

He was so very tired of burying his brother.

_Can you bring him back?_ he asked the small bit of the MorningStar left in him. _This is your fault._

_I can't, _Lucifer murmured. _I'm sorry._

_Yeah,_ Sam said. _You're sorry_.

The world had been saved. Hell shoved back. Zachariah smote by Michael, Castiel lost searching for a God that refused to be found.

Sam knelt, fingers digging into, and he muttered, "You gotta stop doing this to me, Dean."

_Why did I survive?_ he asked Lucifer.

_Because I have not yet completely left you. When I do so, you will be as much a shell as Dean,_ he explained gently.

Slowly, methodically, Sam filled in the hole, dumping eight feet of earth onto his brother, the last family he had. There would be no resurrection this time; Michael burned too brightly, scouring Dean's soul from existence. There was nothing left of him except a car and a corpse—Castiel still had his amulet, somewhere in the cosmos, and his ring vanished in the fight.

_What do I do?_ Sam asked.

_What do you want to do?_ Lucifer asked in reply. _I have only a portion of my strength. Vengeance would be pointless—saving creation merely to destroy it? Your brother's death would mean nothing._

Sam bowed his head. _I won't do anything stupid,_ he muttered. _Like storming Heaven to kill Michael._

He turned away from the unmarked grave and walked into the woods. It began to rain, tiny little droplets, and he wondered if they were Heaven's grief.

Michael hadn't said he was sorry. Hadn't expressed any regret for killing Dean. Had left without even a nod to Dean's sacrifice. Sam paused, turning his face up to the sky. "Did you even notice?" he screamed. "Michael! Did you even notice what he did for you?"

The rain fell harder, in larger drops. _He noticed_, Lucifer murmured. _He noticed, and he mourns._

"If I ever see you again," Sam shouted, "I'll kill you, Michael!" _I swear_, he told Lucifer, collapsing to his knees.

_He knows, my dear_, Lucifer said, and Sam felt a warmth envelop his soul, the equivalent of Lucifer's kiss.

Sam slouched on the forest floor, letting rain soak through his clothes, hoping the water might rinse him clean. Might erase his sins and his shame.

_You'll catch your death_, the devil of devils said reproachfully.

"No," Sam replied softly. "I won't." He couldn't, he knew. Just as Dean was gone forever, Sam could never die. He wouldn't ever see his brother again.

Lucifer sighed, the warmth filling Sam to the brim.

Blinking, Sam chuckled. "Are you…" he gasped through the sudden onslaught of tears. "Are you huggin' me?"

_You will survive this, Samuel. You will move on—you must move on with your life. You still—_

"Hush," Sam murmured, letting his mind wander. If he had so much power, he should be able to do anything he wanted. Go back, but not like Castiel sent Dean. He should change things.

He would change things. He had to, for Dean. Save Dean.

_No, Sam_, Lucifer said. _You can't. Let things stand._

_You need to leave now,_ Sam told him, and Lucifer howled with pain as he vanished.

The power, Sam had finally realized, was not in the fallen angel. The power lay in the vessel.

A door in the depths of his soul opened, finally unlocked, and he stepped through.

o0o

Dean is four years old and playing with army men. Sam watches from the doorway.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says, grinning up at him. "You got big."

This will be a dream, Sam knows. If Dean remembers. But a part of him will recognize the truth in this moment.

"Don't say yes to the angels," Sam tells him, crouching down. "Promise me, Dean. You will never say yes to Michael."

"Okay," Dean agrees. He offers Sam one of the soldiers.

Sam takes it with a smile.

o0o

His eyes opened to Dean, bright with laughter. "C'mon, dude. We're so late."

"Dean," he said, reaching out. "Dean."

Dean paused, letting Sam grip his arm. "Sammy?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

Sam closed his eyes, feeling Dean's skin against his. Dean, alive. He stretched out his power, untainted by Lucifer's presence, and knew he had moments before he fully left, leaving this Sam to his Dean.

He looked at his brother and smiled, said, "I love you."

"Sam?" Dean asked, turning to face him fully. "What—"

And Sam opened his eyes, said, "Dude, what're we waitin' for?" He marched past his brother into the sunlight, and Dean hurried to catch up, so that they strode side-by-side.


	210. Brother, you are bloodred

**Title**: Brother, you are bloodred

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title paraphrased from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: a smidge of Alistair/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Point** of view: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts. (Marcus Aurelius)

* * *

In Hell there is blood. Streams that flow into rivers, rivers that dump into oceans, all sticky and cloying.

In Hell the only color is blood. He thinks of Ruby, those first few weeks, and then he thinks only of the taste, iron and sweet, and how it shines so bright in firelight.

In Hell there is the stench of death, of drying blood. On Earth again, back home with Sammy and the impala and music and food, he gags the first time he gets a papercut.

After that, though, it's as if nothing ever happened. Blood is blood, that's all. Necessary, unavoidable. Normal.

(In his dreams—nightmares—he's back in the lake, Alistair beside him, and the knife drips bloodbloodblood, and the ocean roils, and he licks the blade, and Alistair kisses him and all he smells, all he feels, all he tastes is blood.

Sam tries to wake him a few times. Sam tries to talk to him, to convince him he needs to speak, to tell someone, anyone.

Dean can't explain, doesn't even understand himself, but he simply can't look into Sammy's eyes and say he misses bathing in blood.)


	211. Brother, my heart is rent

**Title**: Brother, my heart is rent

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Donald Platt.

**Warnings**: implied prostitution

**Pairings**: implied OMC/Dean

**Rating**: PG13ish

**Wordcount**: 805

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Sam was thirteen, he realized where their extra money came from. He went home early one day, school shut down because of a small fire, and he saw a stranger leaving their apartment.

The man was pudgy and well-dressed; he didn't fit in their building at all.

Sam paused at the top of the stairs, watching him stride down the hall. The man smirked as he passed Sam, started whistling a bouncy tune. A dozen clues he'd ignored or not noticed before slotted into place in Sam's mind.

For the first time, Sam wanted to kill. He stood a moment longer, considering the pros and cons of following the stranger and destroying him.

Instead, he slowly walked to their door and went in, dropping his booksack on the floor. Dean was showering, of course, and his bed was stripped to the mattress. A small stack of bills rested on the dresser.

Sam counted them: fifteen ones and a single twenty. Thirty-five dollars for that man with his smirk.

He breathed, fists clenched. Dad would be back by the end of the week, barring any disasters. Could Sam go to him, ask for help?

No, he realized. Dad might not know, and wouldn't approve, but he couldn't leave them enough money to survive. If he ordered Dean to stop, Dean might for awhile, until the money ran out.

_I could be wrong_, Sam told himself. _I can't be sure. Not without asking. And I can't do that to Dean._

The shower turned off and Sam left Dean's room. He dragged his booksack to the kitchen table and threw himself into a chair. He didn't feel like doing homework.

He wanted to take his sharpest knife and dig it into that smirking man's belly, to open him from neck to navel. He wondered how many men he'd missed through the years.

The bathroom door opened and Sam didn't look as Dean walked to his room.

_I might be wrong_, Sam thought. _Maybe they played poker. Maybe Dean's dealing drugs._

_Maybe Dad'll come home tonight and say we'll never hunt again._ Sam sighed, resting his face in his hands.

Dean wouldn't stop, Sam knew. Not as long as they needed money. And they'd need money until Sam got out of hunting and had a lucrative career.

He decided then, sitting in their outdated kitchen, that one day he'd be a lawyer and make millions of dollars, and Dean would never—

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, pulling on a shirt as he walked in. Sam saw a darkening bruise on his hip and wondered how many he'd never noticed or written off as training. "You cuttin' class?"

"There was a fire," Sam explained quietly. He glanced up to meet Dean's eyes.

He wondered how young Dean had been. How scared and determined. Dean would kill any man who even thought about Sam. And Sam couldn't even ask Dean to stop.

"You want pizza tonight?" Dean asked, filling a glass with tap water.

"Sure," Sam said, swallowing down bile. He forced a smile, asking, "Can you explain my math homework? The lesson got interrupted by flames."

"'a'course, kiddo." Dean sank into the second chair, skillfully hiding a wince. If Sam hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have seen.

He saw that man's smirk again.. He imagined a knife slicing through muscle and fat, intestines spilling out.

Sam wanted to beg Dean to stop. And Dean would promise, and he'd mean it, but it'd be a lie nonetheless.

"Oh," Dean said, glancing at Sam's notebook. "Here's where you went wrong, Sammy."

So Sam focused on the math and tried to pretend he'd never figured it out. He vowed to only request necessities anymore. If he quit eating up Dad's funds, then Dean wouldn't feel the need… Dean ruffled his hair, rising to his feet. "You got it," he said. "I'll order the pizza. I'm starved, dude."

Sam watched him. Wondered if Dean wanted something more, beyond taking care of a geeky kid brother and a crazy dad, and hunting. He had to want more, but Sam couldn't remember ever hearing him ask.

"An hour," Dean said, hanging up the phone.

Sam nodded, looking back down at his notebook. He had fifteen more problems—same number as the one dollar bills. He felt his stomach clench, felt vomit in his throat. He swallowed, licked his lips.

Dean wouldn't stop. No point in asking. It'd just hurt them both. So he didn't ask. Not that afternoon, or that month, or that year. Or the next five years. When he left, he told Dean to come with him, to leave hunting and blood and monsters behind.

"I can't," Dean said. He smiled sadly. "Be safe, Sammy."

Sam left, and he only looked back once, to see Dean leaning on the Impala, head bowed.


	212. Favored of Heaven

**Title**: Favored of Heaven

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton

**Warnings**: blasphemy? Spoilers for aired season 5; AU

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 410

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: inspired by caffienekitty

**More notes**: heavily leans on _Paradise Lost_ for a couple of phrases and word choice

* * *

_Father, We have waited long enough,_ the only begotten Child says. _It is time for Us to return._

The Creator turns, expression serene. _No, dear one. We must let things happen as they will. _

_You are Mother and Father to all,_ the Child says, meeting God's eternal, all-knowing gaze. _But, My wondrous Parent, You have never carried another life inside You, nourishing that tiny being of Your Own body, Your Own blood and flesh. I have done so three times now, and each of My sons died far too young._

_Mary_, the Parent tries to interject, but the Child continues.

_I became human for You, and I bore my Own Self, out of love and adoration for You, My God and My King, the Most High. I let My firstborn die a painful, lingering death and spend eternities in Hell for sins He never committed. I let my secondborn go to Hell as well, let him break beneath the weight of Alistair's razor-sharp touch._

The Child steps forward, voice soft yet firm, spring rain and mighty hurricane in one_. I let My third son die in a senseless game, and My second return him to life at the cost of his own. But, My Father, My Author—I let Myself be born a third time, purely to give birth to those boys, the greatest of Your angels._

The Lord of Creation holds out a hand. _Mary_, He says softly. _My chief delight, most beautiful, selfless and kind of all My children, My Daughter and My Son, Myself in another body—what is Your will?_

She smiles, all colors of the rainbow in Her eyes. _I wish to live again, Father. To know My sons. To be a part of the tapestry You weave, not simply an observer at the end._

The ultimate Being, Painter of the cosmos, inclines His head. _If You wish to return, Child, go. You are Myself and as such Your will is Law._

She kisses His cheek and says, _Thank You._

_Mary, _He calls and she pauses at the door. _You will be Me on Earth._

She turns, questioning, _What?_

God tells Her, _You may do as You like. Take whatever measures You see fit, Daughter of My soul. I endorse and agree with each one._

Mary nods. _I understand, Father. I shall do You proud._

He smiles, sunrise and a warm breeze, a star lighting creation. _You will, Mary. Now, go back to Your boys_.


	213. so be it, then

**Title**: so be it, then

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Wicked

**Warnings**: AU after season 3

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

At a crossroads, Samuel Winchester collapses to his knees and begs a demon to make a deal.

The demon says no.

The demon tells him that he has nothing they want, nothing to offer, nothing left with which to bargain.

The demon laughs and pats the top of his head.

The demon smirks.

At a crossroads, Samuel Winchester looks up, determined and wrathful, and commands a demon to return his brother.

The demon says no.

The demon tells him that he is nothing, just a little boy who shouldn't play with Daddy's weapons in case he gets hurt.

The demon coos at him, chortles a platitude that means nothing.

The demon smiles, sashaying around him, eyes as crimson as the blood that welled in Dean's mouth and spilled over his lips, down his chin.

At a crossroads, Samuel Winchester rises to his feet. He stares at the demon and demands to speak with someone who has the authority to grant his wish.

The demon says no.

The demon tells him to go back to the impala and wear Dean's necklace because his brother is gone, too far away to return.

The demon mocks him by commenting that Dean's too warm to want to leave.

The demon caresses his cheek and gently kisses the tears that rest there.

At a crossroads, Samuel Winchester whispers that there is but one chance left.

The demon says no.

The demon tells him there are no chances left at all.

The demon reveals that all is going according to plan, his brother burning and him alone on Earth, ripe for the plucking.

The demon cackles, hands gesturing to the world around them, waiting for a plunderer.

At a crossroads, Samuel Winchester bows his head and is done trying to deal.

The demon dies saying no.


	214. those who reap what they didn't sow

**Title**: those who reap what they didn't sow

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: John/Mary, John/Kate Milligan

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 210

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

John cherished his too-few days as Adam's father. He could be the man he'd been before the fire with Adam, the laughing daddy Dean barely remembers and Sam never knew. He could hold Kate in the night, bury himself in her arms, pretend he was simply a mechanic from Kansas, an ex-marine, a husband and a father.

John took Adam to baseball games, taught him to drive, gave him his first beer. He showed Adam a man he'd thought died with Mary.

But Adam only had a week of his life, spread out over a couple of years, and when John bargained with Azazel, he didn't even spare Adam a thought.

Adam was a good boy, but he had no place in John's life. He knew only a shadow, and never even fathomed the possibility of the warrior.

Adam was lucky, though, John realized, because he wasn't Mary's son. Adam would never be more than a bystander in the war to come, and John chose to let him keep his innocence.

So John warned Dean, knowing his oldest boy would make the right decision, wished he could apologize to Sammy, and went to keep his end of the deal to save Dean's life.

In those final moments, Adam never crossed his mind.


	215. ponderings

**Title**: ponderings

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: implied one-sided Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 170

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, Castiel asks Dean if he would prefer the angel to have a female vessel

* * *

"Sam," Castiel said, as soon as he appeared, "may I ask you a question?"

Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened them and spit into the sink. Counting to ten in French, now, he rinsed his mouth, spit again, and turned to face the angel. "Of course," he said. "What's up?"

Castiel, as always, looked slightly mystified at the ways of humans. His gaze went from Sam's eyes to the toothbrush now resting on the rim of the sink to the cup and finally back to Sam's. "Would Dean prefer if my vessel were female?"

Sam blinked. "Come again?"

Quietly, Castiel repeated, "Would Dean prefer if my vessel were female?"

Sam canted his head to the side, considering for a moment. He counted to twenty in Latin before saying, "I honestly don't think it matters."

Hesitantly, a new look for Castiel, he asked, "That is the truth?"

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding.

Castiel smiled. "Very well," he said and vanished.

Sam sighed, flipped off the light, and went to bed.


	216. Lazarus smiled

**Title**: Lazarus smiled the smile of the dead

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 430

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When John Winchester first stepped into Hell, he looked around with a judging eye and said, "Cozy."

"Now, John," Azazel purred, twining about him. "Follow me to your new home. We'll have eternity to play together."

"No, you yellow-eyed piece of pond-scum," John replied, pulling out of his grip. "Someone's got a prior claim on me."

"Who?" Azazel demanded. "We made a deal!"

John smirked at him. "And I'm here," John told him condescendingly. "I'll stay in Hell until your stupid game plays out and opens the door. But while I'm here," John murmured, leaning in close, lips brushing Azazel's ear, "you can't touch me."

Azazel snarled and lunged for him, only to be tossed away by an unseen force. "Who's there?" he roared. "Who dares interfere? Lucifer himself—"

"Hush," John said quietly, grinning. "You don't want to attract attention."

Glaring at the most infuriating human to ever live, Azazel grit his teeth. "You will go on the rack like every soul," he hissed. "That is Hell's law."

"No," John said patiently. "I won't." He looked around again. "Well, at least I won't get cold, huh?" he remarked. "I fuckin' hate the cold."

He started walking and Azazel stared after him, dumbfounded. Demons drifted close, drawn by the scent of fresh meat, but then fled from him. Azazel just blinked before hurrying to catch up.

Alistair met them at the Burning Lake. "You brought me a new toy?" he asked, salivating as he watched John trail his fingers through the fire.

"He claims someone's protecting him from the rack," Azazel said. "Now that he's here, I can't touch him."

Alistair pouted. "It's not Lilith," he mused. "Not Belial, or Beelzebub, either."

"Wouldn't be Moloch or Mammon, and I'm on Lucifer's business," Azazel added. "No one else has the power to stop me."

John chuckled. "You're lookin' in the wrong place, demons," he called, plunging into the flames. "Think higher!"

Alistair and Azazel exchanged wide-eyed glances. "You made a deal with an angel?" Alistair said. "That's foolish."

"Not exactly," John said. He strode from the lake clad only in his soulskin, the last remnants of his life scorched away. He met their gazes, a cold, dangerous smirk twisting his lips. "You should'a checked the fine-print."

Azazel truly had no idea what he meant. But when Dean gave him that same smirk while pulling the trigger of Colt's special gun, he thought he might have finally understood.

(The only thing, Lucifer had told him, that could kill an angel was an angel-made weapon. Fine-print indeed, that fucking hunter.)


	217. giving thanks

**Title**: giving thanks

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Sam, "The only thing I'm thankful for is you"

* * *

The first and last actual Thanksgiving meals Sam had were at Stanford. Dean did his best most of those years they were kids, but the meager offerings were something even Sam as a boy knew weren't good enough.

Not that he didn't enjoy those times, and not that he intentionally let on to Dean his disappointment, but—well, despite what they both say, Dean's not an idiot. Not by a longshot.

He and Jess had plans to visit her family for Thanksgiving that last year. The year before that, all the kids left in the dorms had banded together. After the fire, Sam wasn't feeling very thankful and Dean let the date slip by without mentioning. Each consecutive year, the world seemed to be conspiring against them and holidays grew steadily more painful.

And now, after they've both died, after Bobby's been crippled, after Ellen and Jo and so many others… after Dean broke the first Seal and Sam blasted open the last—what do they have to be thankful for?

Sam wakes up on Thanksgiving morning prepared to ignore the day and Dean's watching Macy's Parade, mocking or praising the floats and the performances.

"Sammy!" he calls, throwing a pillow at Sam's head. "Dude, you gotta see this one. It's Shrek!"

Smiling without even thinking about it, Sam crawls down the bed to lie beside his brother.

Maybe there is something to be thankful for.


	218. pater

**Title**: pater

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: Azazel/John, John/Mary

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 245

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Azazel/John, his only hope lies with his worst enemy

* * *

He realizes, one foot already in the door, that everything has led to this point.

His baby boy is lying in a hospital bed and will never wake up. Whatever damage Azazel caused was compounded by that semi, and Dean is as good as dead.

Azazel did it, and Azazel can damn well undo it, and John knows that Dean will never forgive him.

The words roll off his tongue with ease and he wonders if this is how Mary felt, that night he died. If she hadn't made a deal, what would the world be like now? There wouldn't be a Sam, so would Azazel's choice be someone else, someone more likely to turn?

Doesn't matter. Mary made a deal, and now John is, and he hopes so very hard that neither of his boys ever do.

"John," Azazel purrs, grinning up at him. "Such a pleasure doing business with you."

John suffers through the kiss because Sam needs Dean, and the world needs Dean, and John needs to know that Dean's alive. When Azazel releases him, he goes straight to Dean and tries so hard not to cry, not to just scoop Dean up and cradle the boy to his chest like he hasn't since those nights just after the fire.

"I'm proud of you," he says. _I'm proud of you and I love you and you can save us all, Dean,_ is what he means, and then he goes back to Azazel.


	219. wherever I may roam

**Title**: wherever I may roam

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 77

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam and Dean, aftermath

* * *

"Sammy," he says quietly, "you don't have to do this."

"No, Dean," Sam replies just as quietly, "I really do." He doesn't look up or over, just continues, "You don't understand. I... this is just something that I..." He shakes his head.

"Well," Dean says. "Be safe."

Sam nods. He doesn't look back, just shoulders his booksack and grabs his duffel, and walks into the bus station.

Dean closes his eyes and sends up a solitary prayer.


	220. pride goeth, the serpent says

**Title**: pride goeth, the serpent says

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: Sam/Lucifer; a smidge of Dean/Sam, if you want it

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 255

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Lucifer, "Pride come before the fall"

* * *

_You'll say yes_, he purrs. _You will. Everyone else has, and when we're together, we'll rule and tame and break this world. We'll be a force unlike any other—we'll shake His throne and cast Him low, our foot on His neck. We'll be everything, better than all that was or is or has yet to be. We are endless, beyond bounds._

_You'll say yes,_ he promises, pride in his eyes and his words. _You'll say yes to me. We'll be everything_.

But you have a brother and salt and blood and gunpowder and leather and engine grease. You have years with him and years apart, Hell and college between you but unable to shake everything that came before.

So even if you say yes—which you won't, you swear, you won't—it won't be a complete surrender.

_You'll say yes to me_, he whispers, kissing your forehead, your nose, your lips. _You'll say yes._

Even if you do, a long time ago, you already said yes to Dean.

Pride defeated him before, you think, tasting apple and blood. Pride is your sin, too.

The only place left to fall is to him.

But Dean will pick you up and dust you off and hand you a knife and a gun, so even if you say yes—_which you never ever will_—you have a lifeline.

_You'll say yes to me_, he swears, anointing your brow with blood. _You'll give me your consent and Creation will be ours_.

Pride, you think. Unending. Weakness.

Yours, too.


	221. clichéd and beloved

**Title**: clichéd and beloved

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: anytime before season 3

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 190

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**:Sam/Dean, Diner, hotel and a car

* * *

This is home, Sam thinks, watching Dean flirt with the waitress. This is home, in a way Stanford never was, or Bobby's place, or that endless stream of motels and apartments when they were kids.

Nomads, Dean once called them. That fits now, too.

Dean glances out the window as Alice(or Susie or Becky or Lizzy) sashays away. "The car's fine," Sam tells him. "I've been watching; those punks haven't come back to mess with her."

"Good," Dean says, meeting Sam's gaze. "Imma kick their asses, Sammy. That alright with you?"

Sam looks past him to the Impala, gleaming in the hot afternoon light. "Yeah," he answers quietly.

This is home, after all, this clichéd little diner, that hotel room waiting up the road, and the Impala in the parking lot. This is home, and you protect your home from invaders, from threats and outsiders.

Dean greets Mandy(or Ethel or Lorraine or Candice) with a wide grin as she hands over their drinks and asks if they're ready.

"Why yes, young lady," he drawls, "we sure are."

Sam ducks his head to hide his smile.

Yeah, he thinks, this is home.


	222. midway between the wing and the leg

**Title**: midway between the wing and the leg

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place during "Lazarus Rising"

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 230

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Dean_, the world chants, the air, the ground. _Dean_, _Dean_.

He breathes, inhale, exhale, and listens. Wind against his skin, through his hair. Sunlight. Dirt.

Threadbare clothes and tattered shoes, a handmade cross.

Open sky, calling, _Dean, Dean. He's waiting for you_.

His whole body hurts and his skin feels tight, stretched and new. His fingers are bloody, a few nails gone. He stumbles at first, hitting his knees when he tries to stand. He has to relearn those motions, fresh from his grave.

_Dean, Dean_, the trees whisper as wind hurtles through them. It feels like the start of autumn, and he knows he died in the spring.

_He's waiting for you_, the dark birds caw—funerals and murders, and this is Alistair's trick, has to be—and he walks. He walks for minutes and hours and days… time is so different, now. He walks beneath sunlight and he walks beneath stars, tired and hungry and thirsty, and he waits for Alistair to tear back the veil, to smirk and to laugh, to lick a stripe of blood up his side and hiss into his ear, _Did you really think I'd let you go, boy? You said yes and you're mine. Mine forever. _

_Dean_, he hears, in the air and the ground. _Dean. You're alive. You're alive and you're free. _

He trudges down a highway and doesn't believe it.


	223. amaranthus blossoming

**Title**: amaranthus blossoming

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary, Samuel/Deanna

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 125

**Point of view**: third

* * *

It began at night, after blood and death took away two loving parents. It began with a deal, a young woman named Mary signing away something that wasn't even hers yet. Her lover lay dead in her lap, her mother back at their house, her father's body held in thrall of the murderer.

It began in fire. It began with fear and pain and the all-encompassing need for justice—vengeance.

It began when a boy walked away from his family, determined to be normal and safe, even though he had no concept of either.

It began with a shared search, with gunpowder and blood, with dying in each other's arms.

And this is how it ends:

They're together, of course.

Beyond that, does it matter?


	224. Death close following

**Title**: Death close following pace for pace, not mounted yet on his pale horse

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 250

* * *

_Imagine, _Gordon says softly. _You got baby Hitler in front of you. Wouldn't you kill 'im for the good of the world?_

Dean closes his eyes and turns his face away. _I'm not gonna kill Sam_, he whispers. _Not for you, not for Dad—not for God or the world. _

Gordon grunts in disgust and stands up, pulling Dean with him. _Well now, that's a problem, Dean. We've thrown everything we've got at him, and he just shrugs it off. Keeps coming. He's too powerful, see? Embraced the devil within._

Not answering, Dean lets his mind blank. Lets himself forget where he is, what he's done, what he's let come to pass by his inaction.

He thinks about Sammy, about that little boy, his baby brother, his whole wide world, the focal point of his existence.

_He'll come for you, Dean_, Gordon says. _He'll come for you. And then we'll take him_.

Dean raises his eyes to the ceiling. _No_, he corrects gently, surer than sure. _You'll try_. He knows, finally, exactly what his purpose has always been.

He's not meant to kill Sam. He's meant to pave the way, to prepare the world for Sam's first steps. So his gaze flits to Gordon's face, and he lunges, slamming his bound hands against Gordon's nose, stunning him long enough to finally—_finally_—act.

Sam will come for him, Gordon was right about that. Sam will come and find sacrifices ready, for his glory and his power and his new world.


	225. honey and peanut butter

**Title**: honey and peanut butter

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none, really

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 115

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: pancake

**Notes**: there is no point to this little drabble. At all. *shrugs*

* * *

When Sam was eleven, Dean made pancakes one morning, but they were out of syrup.

"No problem," Dean said, pulling the honey jar out of their pathetic pantry. Sam raised an eyebrow, but Dean just grinned and snagged the peanut butter, too.

Sam watched skeptically as Dean spread the peanut butter on a single pancake and then poured the honey, taking great care to get every centimeter of the flapjack. Dean pushed the plate to Sam, and Sam started carving his breakfast up.

He wasn't skeptical after the first bite and he never went back to syrup.

When Jessica asked where he picked up the honey and peanut butter habit, he smiled and said, "My brother."


	226. when the blameless and the righteous die

**Title**: when the blameless and the righteous die

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Steven Brust.

**Warnings**: takes place in the 5.4 future

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 120

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Any, The Devil mocks their every step (Zeppelin)

* * *

He is there in every particle of creation, in the human monsters they've seen their whole lives, in bombing and bullies, in murder and mayhem. He is everywhere and everything, and no matter what they do, how many demons and the like they kill or send back to Hell, it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

They'll die failing (again) and then the world will burn.

He already won, so when Sam says _yes_ quietly one day, beneath a smog-filled sky, while Dean battles a dozen possessed people, it doesn't feel like losing.

It doesn't feel like victory either, and then he hears Dean shouting his name, but he sounds so far away…

_Ah, yes_, Lucifer croons, sibilant and righteous. _Like coming home_.


	227. that which no man foretold

**Title**: that which no man foretold

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Emerson

**Warnings**: future!fic; probably AU; spoilers for aired season 5; character death

**Pairings**: none stated

**Wordcount**: 525

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean holds out until just after dusk, but with the sun goes his will. And that's when Michael visits again.

"Dean," he murmurs, smiling sadly, crouching down by Dean's side. "Just say yes. We'll cleanse this world of the taint and My Father will start anew. It will be glorious, as it was at the Garden, in the beginning."

Dean's eyes are on the corner, on the body shoved there, scrunched up and broken. Lucifer's vessel is completely out of reach, the devil blocked by some mojo only Michael is strong enough to generate.

Why Michael healed Sam in the past if he'd always planned this, Dean doesn't know. Doesn't care. His answer is the same it's always been, and this time his determination is backed by grief and fury and hatred.

Sam got burned up by God's Sword, so there's nothing to even bargain for.

"You might as well kill me, too," Dean tells him. "I'll never consent."

"Even now you remain selfishly stubborn?" Michael asks. "Billions have died, will continue to die. Why do you refuse to do God's will?"

Sammy used to pray, Dean knows. He stopped after Dean went to Hell, but when he learned that an angel saved Dean, he started up again. Then he met Uriel and stopped for good, cold turkey.

"You're not their savior," Dean says. "You'll kill them all, everyone your brother hasn't already destroyed."

Michael shakes his head. "You're a fool, Dean Winchester," he pronounces, grabbing Dean's neck and rising to his feet, holding Dean with ease. "You're a fool, but you're the vessel I need, so say yes to me."

"Never," Dean hisses. "Kill the world, I don't care. My world is already dead."

Michael casts him aside. "Then stay here," he commands. "Stay here with your darling little Sammy. When you change your mind, call me."

As Michael leaves, he takes the light. Dean slowly stands, back to the wall, and feels for one of the sigils Michael burned into the stone. Eyes closed, Dean uses his pocketknife to destroy Michael's mark.

Lucifer arrives immediately and leans next to Dean. "What do you want?" he asks. By the light Lucifer makes, Dean sees him avoid looking at Sam.

"Your brother killed my brother," Dean says. "Can you fix him?"

Lucifer shakes his head. His vessel is crumbling around him, but Dean stares into his eyes, unafraid.

Nothing scares him anymore.

"Michael completely eradicated your—your brother." Lucifer says it gently, compassionately. "I can't—only the Tyrant could restore him. I'd try for a hundred years and fail."

Dean drops to his knees, falls back against the wall. "I don't care about the world anymore," he says. "I just want to hurt Michael and His Father." Lucifer crouches down before him as Dean continues, "Can you help me do that?"

"Yes," Lucifer promises. "If you consent we can tear Michael apart, together. I'll keep you awake for it."

Dean nods, gaze drifting to Sammy. "After, whatever happens, can you destroy me? I don't—I don't want to exist anymore."

Lucifer swears, "As you ask, Dean Winchester, so shall it be."

And Dean says, "Yes."


	228. Hear now the tale of jetblack sunrise

**Title**: Hear now the tale of a jetblack sunrise

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Whitman.

**Warnings**: spoilers for 5.14; takes place just after.

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point of view**: third

* * *

_Oh, Sammy_, the devil croons, patting his cheek. _Color me impressed, kiddo. But you really gotta stop killin' my generals._

(don't say yes don't say yes please let me get there in time don't say yes)

_Quit sendin' them after me and mine, then,_ Sam replies, standing tall in the dream.

Lucifer grins, fangs glistening and dove-white wings spread wide. _You were magnificent_, he says. _I couldn't have done it better_.

(stay strong stay strong I'm coming don't say yes)

_Even Azazel didn't guess your true strength_, Lucifer muses_. Alistair, Lilith, Famine—who next? _

Sam raises an eyebrow. _I'm not ever gonna give in to you_, Sam promises him. _And one day, I'll kill you._

Laughing, Lucifer pats his cheek again. _Killing me, Sam, would be like killing God. And only He could. _

(don't say yes don't say yes you're better than that better than me don't say yes)

_We'll see_, Sam murmurs, smirking. _In Detroit_.

The power's not in the blood, after all. It was in him, all along. He knows that now. He's killed a Horseman, and two powerful demons, and unleashed Satan onto the world.

(don't say yes not to him wait don't say yes)

The dream turns, inwards to the past, to Jessica and Stanford and when the world was golden.

But Sam remembers, and so does Lucifer.

All Sam has to do is open himself up to the potential and submit, to surrender entirely. He can control it, he knows that. Azazel didn't give him the power, merely heightened it. Like Ruby, and Famine's pets. It's always been in him. It's why Lucifer wants him, why Nick won't work for long.

He can kill the devil. He will.

(don't say yes don't say yes please don't say yes wait don't say yes)

Alistair was easy, Lilith a little harder, but Famine and his minions were a cakewalk. And now, crouched on the floor of Bobby's panic room, trying to control himself and the need screaming through him, Sam knows what he has to do.

It is not in the blood. Not Azazel's, not Ruby's, not a random demon offered up as a sacrifice to please a sadistic lord. The power is his, to wield and to rule, for justice and vengeance and the world.

To save Dean. To keep Dean safe from Lucifer and Zachariah and Michael, and whoever else might gun for him. To make up for everything he's ever done wrong, all the mistakes and failures and deaths.

(don't not like this don't say yes not like this)

He can fix everything. Kill Lucifer and hit a giant reset button. Maybe even save Mom and Dad, give them that life they always wanted. Let them and Dean and the world be safe. Without him, none of this would have happened.

Locked in Bobby's panic room, Sam closes his eyes and follows the tendril deep into his mind, spiraling downward for the well of power.

(don't not like this)

He says yes.

Lucifer smiles.


	229. at our heels all Hell should rise

**Title**: at our heels all Hell should rise

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. title from Milton.

**Warnings**: AU for season 4

**Pairings**: implied wincest, implied Castiel/Dean

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 700

**Dedication**: tempestquill, for her birthday

* * *

He comes in the night, visiting Dean's nightmares, weaving webs of protection and comfort. _I saved you, _he whispers. _I pulled you from the Pit, leaving my mark, and now no demon—no, not even Lilith, mother of monsters—can touch you. This is my doing, Dean, son of Mary, Our chosen Man. _He soothes with gentle caresses, with soft kisses and embraces from Above.

He comes in the night and Sam hates it.

o0o

Dean has wonder-filled eyes, innocent expressions—all _his_ doing, that _angel of the Lord_. Dean's savior. The one who did what Sam could not.

Sam did believe. He believed and he begged and he swore fealty, if only Dean would be restored to him.

But the Lord did not respond to Sam. He returned Dean to life without Sam's knowledge, without talking to Sam at all.

Sam swore fealty, but that is one promise he cannot see a way to keep.

o0o

Castiel hasn't shown himself to Sam. Sam asks Dean for a description and he can't find the words. But he speaks of the so-called angel in hushed murmurs, eyes wide, stuttering in adoration.

Sam does believe in God. He feels in his bones that God is real, somewhere. He prayed and begged and swore allegiance to Dean's savior.

But Castiel is not worthy. He is using Dean, lying to Dean, playing with Dean. He claims to be an angel, but Sam knows better.

Sam knows there is a Being who formed the world. Sam used to pray to Him. But now, with knowledge and power thrumming through his blood, Sam vows to destroy Him and all His little peons, Dean's savior included.

o0o

They've cornered Lilith in Salvation when Castiel finally deigns to appear. Dean's instantly fawning, no longer a strong man who survived Hell intact—he's nothing but a broken dog, belly-up for attention.

Rage fills Sam, power rising in him. Castiel has eyes only for Dean and doesn't even spare Sam a glance.

Sam remembers Ruby's words about angels, how they smite first and ask questions later. She had been full of fear and horror, but Castiel underwhelms Sam.

Dean turns to Sam, saying, "He'll help us, Sammy."

Sam smiles at his brother and Castiel flinches back. "No, Dean," Sam says softly. "He won't."

Killing a so-called angel is no more difficult than killing a demon. Dean turns horror-filled eyes on Sam, who lowers his hand slowly.

"Sammy…"

Sam waits. Dean will never leave him; he only needs a moment to readjust. He died for Sam, went to Hell for Sam. He is Sam's.

"Dean," Sam says. "We need to finish Lilith now."

"You destroyed an angel," Dean whispers. "What's happened to you, Sammy?"

Sam lightly grips his shoulder, cupping Dean's face with his other hand. "I'm still me," he says, meeting Dean's gaze. Dean lowers his lashes, head bowed. "Look at me," Sam gently commands.

Dean doesn't, body tight, jaw clenched.

"Look at me," Sam repeats.

When Dean does, Sam tells him, "You are mine."

Dean's savior, the creature that pulled him from the Pit when even Sam couldn't, is dead. The Being who never answered Sam's prayers will soon follow.

"You are mine," Sam whispers.

And Dean nods.


	230. inherit the kingdom

**Title**: inherit the kingdom

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 470

**Point of view**: third

**Notes**: for the sammessiah ficathon, to the prompt _Sam is the Antichrist, right? It's something you're born with, in the genes. And Dean shares 50 of those genes…_

* * *

_Skin-to-skin, they sleep, limbs tangled, curled possessively around each other. There are no masks between them now, as they breathe in tandem. There is just them, against the world. _

_There is just them, huddled together with no blanket, beneath the glorious sky._

o0o

John failed to mention a major part of the secret, when he whispered what must be in Dean's ear.

It was easily done, though, since everyone forgot. Mary, too.

o0o

_Sam shivers, nuzzles into Dean's chest for warmth. Dean moves with him, pulling him closer. He'd pull Sam all the way in, if he could, the better to protect his most precious possession. _

_Dean's eyelids flicker open, arms wrapped around Sam, hand cupping his skull, fingers threaded by Sam's hair. _

_They're coming. Soon. He should wake Sam, get him moving. But Sam sleeps so rarely, now, guilt eating away at him._

_Dean has no regret._

o0o

Gordon Walker thought he knew something. He did, but not everything. Not enough.

o0o

_"Sammy," he whispers, gently kissing Sam's neck. "Time to get up. We gotta go." _

_Sam mumbles, burying his face in Dean's shoulder. _

_Dean smiles and rolls them over, straddling Sam. "Get up, little brother," he says. "We gotta go now. We can sleep more later." _

_He stands, hunting for his pants in the dark. Sam stretches, yawns, watches. "Who is it?" he asks, rising to his feet._

_"Bobby," Dean answers. _

o0o

It's in the blood, come the end. Azazel was a fool, if he thought to have one without the other.

o0o

_They go, striding together across the land, hiding in the air and rain, laughing and talking about the good old days, before. _

_Not that they'd trade anything away._

o0o

When Sam turned, it was somewhat anti-climatic. There was no flash of lightning, no rumble of thunder, no trembling of the Earth beneath his feet.

It was a splatter of blood from a woman anointing his face, a woman who had once been his friend.

"Sam," Dean had yelled, grabbing his arm, pulling him out the door. "Damnit, man, move."

And that was that.

o0o

_They leave no trail, no sign of their passing. They only kill what gets in their way, as they skirt civilization._

_They do not follow a set path, but go where they will, walking in directions that catch their fancy._

_They are hunted for what they are, for what they used to be. They will only kill their hunters if their one-time friends get too close._

o0o

There was no question of Dean turning. He simply went with his brother, same as he'd always done.

Sam does not want to end the world; there would be no fun in that. And Dean doesn't care what happens, so long as he's with Sammy.

o0o

_They roam, like they did before. They live. They lie side-by-side, close as they can be, and breathe. _


	231. chapparal

**Title**: chaparral

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for season 4

**Pairings**: implied Sam/Dean

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 125

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

A part of him knows. The rest of him doesn't(wantto)listen. The rest of him just wants to stay in bed, curled up in Sam's arms, listening to Sam breathe and feeling the steady thump of Sam's heartbeat under his hand. The rest of him just wants to be here now, not in that distant past of painrage or the future of uncertaintyfear.

But a part of him knows. A part of him knows where Sam is when he's not here, why Sam doesn't let him leave(_not safe, yet, but soon, promise I promise_). A part of him knows exactly how he got dragged out of Hell.

The rest of him just burrows into his brother, his brother with sometimes golden eyes, and refuses to listen.


	232. Reflection

**Title**: Reflection

**Dislcaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Dead Man's Blood"; implied prostitution; AUish for Supernatural vampires

**Pairings**: mentions Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 770

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean hasn't looked into a mirror for five years. The mirrors to drive don't count—you can't really see yourself in those, so they're okay.

He knows he looks bad, but eyes still follow him, people still stare and smile appreciatively. Even with one eye gone and torn clothes, you can still tell he once was beautiful.

o0o

He never really liked mirrors, didn't trust them. Sam's green eyes were enough of a reflection, told him everything he needed to know.

Women and men told him how gorgeous he was; someone once asked him what it was like, looking at perfection every day.

If he remembers right, he got three hundred dollars for that one and two nights later broke the man's jaw.

o0o

Mirrors lie.

Dean knows he's not beautiful. Dean knows he's a killer and towing a fine line drawn in shifting sand. Dean knows he's just a fucked-up boy playing a man's game.

Dean knows he'll catch up to Dad soon and become a killer again.

o0o

Dean hasn't looked in a mirror since he wiped off Sam's blood and shattered one into a million pieces.

Dean hasn't looked in a mirror since he couldn't see Sam's reflection but felt Sam's hand on his shoulder and Sam's teeth in his neck.

Dean hasn't looked in a mirror since he killed the thing his brother had become.

o0o

Mirrors lie. He avoids looking into one like the plague, fearing one will finally tell the truth.

o0o

Sam used to ask why mirrors reflected the world, if something existed behind them.

Dean answered, "Mirrors are maybes, Sammy. We see what they let us, because they're scared we'll break 'em if we don't see what we want."

For some reason, Sammy accepted that. Dean never understood why.

o0o

Dean hopes Dad can't bear his reflection, either.

Deep inside, he knows it wasn't Dad's fault. None of them were prepared for the vampires. The plan got fucked-up because there were ten instead of three.

But deep inside is deep inside, and Dean's grief is too much.

o0o

"Join me, Dean," Sam whispered in his ear, fingers threading through his hair. "We can have forever."

Dean's reflection stood alone, hazel eyes wide with loss, fear, and rage.

_You're not Sammy_ coursed through him like a tidal wave but now lips were pressed against his neck and teeth nipped at him.

"Say yes," Sam whispered into his skin. "I don't want to force you."

Dean's reflection had tears trailing down his face and Sam hadn't noticed the machete lying on the counter, half-covered by a towel.

"You're not Sammy," Dean said and NotSammy without a reflection laughed.

NotSammy gently turned Dean around and pushed him back against the counter. Dean didn't look at him—if he couldn't see Sam's green eyes, maybe he could actually set Sam free. NotSammy kissed and licked his way down Dean's face and Dean's hand closed around the machete.

o0o

It wasn't Dad's fault. It wasn't Dean's fault. It wasn't Sam's fault.

It was the vampires' fault and Dean made sure they paid the price in full.

One of the good things about near invincibility—the amount of pain it takes to die.

o0o

Dean hasn't looked in a mirror since the last time he cried, Sam's blood on his face and Sam's name on his lips, the ghost of Sam's—NotSammy's—kiss on his neck.

Dean hasn't looked in a mirror for half a decade and wonders what of his reflection is left.

o0o

If souls are how you get a reflection, he'd bet he doesn't have one anymore. Killing demons, exorcising ghosts, slaying varying degrees of evil—fighting the Darkness turns bits of you dark, unless you have something to cling to.

Dad had them. Dean had Dad and the memory of Sam for those four years his little brother escaped.

And now all Dean has is Dad's trail and the feel of Sam's teeth gently tearing into his neck.

It's just not the same and the darkness beckons with Sam's voice.

o0o

Dean doesn't trust mirrors. And he's afraid to look into one because it might tell him he died five years ago.


	233. hear the wind blow, dear

**Title**: hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. title from "Down in the Valley." I haven't a clue who wrote it.

**Warnings**: AU; incest; a bit twisty. May not make sense.

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 680

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_There's danger in the satin of her touch, such a danger—if only he can remember…_

o0o

Sam has no memories of his mother until he's twenty-three. He can't recall the feel of her hands or her voice crooning lullabies or her scent. He doesn't remember how her hair glowed in sunlight or her eyes lit up whenever Dean showed her one of his drawings.

He doesn't remember.

o0o

The first time Sam saw Jessica, something flashed through him, white-hot and raw, and he ached, inside and out.

He thought it was lust.

It wasn't.

o0o

John kissed Mary like she was fragile and soft, like he'd die if he didn't. He held her tight against his chest, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her face and her head, trying to keep her forever.

She was destined to leave, not that he ever knew it. And not that he'd believe it if he had.

o0o

Dean remembers. Everything is imbedded in his mind.

He wishes he could forget.

o0o

Jessica was beautiful, with long golden hair and shining hazel eyes. She fit with him, encouraged him, laughed at his stupid jokes and didn't mock him for his idiosyncrasies.

She was lewd and crass and made the best pancakes he'd ever had. She was funny and sweet and accepted him as he was.

She was a lie, not that he ever knew it. And not that he would've believed it if he'd learned.

o0o

He first laid eyes on her in a park. She was standing in a sunbeam, face towards the sky, looking more angelic than human. She breathed in time with the breeze blowing from the east, and she met his eyes with a smile.

John never looked back. Mary sometimes wished he would.

o0o

Dean thinks back, sometimes. Not that often and never for long. It doesn't change anything, nothing gets better—it's useless to regret what is and mourn what was.

Useless. Waste of time and energy and thoughts better spent elsewhere.

He remembers, though, when the world wasn't this way.

o0o

John loved Mary with everything in him, so completely that he couldn't see where he ended and she began. He was happy, those six years they had. Happiest he'd ever been his whole life.

But like always before, his happiness ended in blood and fire.

o0o

Dean looks at Jessica and sees Mama. He knows what's coming, but Sam's not ready to believe.

Not yet. If Dean had his way(not that he ever has, or ever will, and he's fine with that, _really_ he is) Sam wouldn't have to deal with it, ever.

But it's not up to Dean. He can just be there, like always.

o0o

Two fires Dean's dragged him out of. Two fires where beautiful blondes who loved him died. Two fires set by the same damned thing, and Sam doesn't know why.

Dean does. He wishes so hard he didn't.

o0o

Dad whispers a secret in his ear, and it's not a secret at all. A golden-eyed shadow has been telling him for years.

Mama told him, face sad.

Jessica told him, bearing weary.

Missouri told him, eyes hard and accusing. _What do you think you're doing, boy?_ she'd demanded in his head.

Dean has an answer, but not one she'd want, so he says nothing.

o0o

_My favorite_, it says, showing Sam the truth.

Sam refuses to believe.

Dean never had that luxury.

_o0o_

_Take your brother outside, _Dad said. _Fast as you can. Don't look back._

Dean never has.

_Good boy, _it said, smirk of fire curling as its lip. _Best of all my children._

Rage coursed through him, giving strength. With his mother's smile on his face, Dean pulled the Colt's trigger.

o0o

It wasn't lust, that sunny day, the first time Sam ever saw her. It was recognition, deep in his gut.

Dean looks at her and knows.

When he leads Sam from the apartment into the night, her smile is his mother's.

_Second chance, baby boy, _he hears in his mind, driving towards Jericho, Sam sitting shotgun for the first time in years. _Use it well. _

_I will, _he swears.


	234. unto the end

**Title**: unto the end

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: season 3 AU

**Pairings**: hints of demon/Sam, hints of Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 435

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Time was short, half a month to year's end, and Sam thought maybe he'd finally found a way out. It'd be hard, with a sky-high cost, but he'd pay gladly. He'd just have to make sure Dean never knew.

o0o

"Oh, Sam," the demon cooed, clothed in another petite blonde. "How nice of you to call."

"I need your help," he said, wishing he could bite his tongue. "I'll do anything within my power."

The demon froze, host's blue eyes widening in shock. "You want to go against a _dealmaker_? Are you insane?"

He wasn't above begging, not for this. "Please."

o0o

Sam didn't trust his rapist any more than he could toss Jupiter, but there were no other options.

Dean left alone on the final morning, asking Sam to stay safe as his last request.

And Dean came back at sundown, gently closing the motel door behind him.

"Did you know," he mused, stripping off his shirt, a red mark burned around his neck, "that the amulet kept demons out?"

His eyes flickered yellow. Sam looked away.

"Your brother's in here, Sam. He's pissed. Gonna kick your ass when I leave." The demon reached into Dean's pocket, throwing a small bundle at Sam.

Dean's amulet, wrapped in cloth. "Put it on him and I'm gone," the demon said. "Little Sally Dealmaker's renounced her claim on your brother—you won't drop dead and no hounds are comin' for him."

"What do I owe you?" Sam asked, clenching his fist around Dean's necklace.

Dean's face smirked. "I'll come to you one night, Sammy Winchester, when I've accomplished my work. I'm the oldest, now, been promoted. And I'll have an offer for you." Dean's body stepped forward, smooth as a cat. "Your brother won't remember what I've done. Tell him anything you like. But my price, Sam, is that you take what I offer." Dean's hands cupped Sam's face. "Or _I_ will come for him." The demon kissed him with Dean's mouth; after a moment, Sam kissed back. "Do we have a deal?" the demon whispered.

"Yes." Sam brought his arms up, tying the necklace around Dean's neck, and the demon fled.

"Sammy?" Dean murmured, shuddering. "What—how…"

Sam pulled Dean to him, barely holding back tears. "You're free, Dean," he said, voice muffled in Dean's neck. "The year's up and she let you go."

"Sam." There was a warning in Dean's tone. "_What did you do?"_

Sam just kept holding Dean. "Worry about that later," he plead. "You're free."

Dean, after a moment's hesitation, burrowed into Sam with a heavy, relieved sigh. "I'm free."

Sam closed his eyes.


	235. rocks of black obsidian

**Title**: rocks of black obsidian

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot; oblique incest; AU in a major way

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 425

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Tell me what you want," it says. She looks at it, a being of ash and shadow, fire revealing its eyes, and replies, "I want someone to love, someone who loves me."

It gazes long at her scarred and broken body, at the spirit waning within her, and knows that no human could love her as she is now.

So it gives her a new body, a new life, and tells her, "There will be price, Mistress."

She spins, staring at herself in the mirror, at her bright hair and beautiful eyes, at her lovely form. "I'll pay gladly," she answers.

o0o

It waits twenty years to come for her, letting her enjoy her new existence. It took from her all memories of her life before, but when it arrives, she recognizes it.

And it takes her, as it had warned her it would.

She accepts her lot gracefully, once she calms. "What will another life cost?" she asks.

"Tell me what you want," it says.

"I want to see my sons grow. I want to know they're happy and safe," she replies.

"Give me your second son to be my heir, and you will have a third—final—life."

She stares at it. "He belongs to himself—how can I trade him?"

It smiles, fangs of shadow causing her to shudder. "You created him, my dear. You carried him within you, cradled by your muscle and your flesh, warmed by your body and fed by your blood. He is yours."

She ponders for a long moment. "Give me a third life and my son will be your heir," she whispers, shame in her voice.

o0o

It watches as she meets Sam at university, as they fall in love. It waits until her firstborn comes for Sam to act, to return the knowledge of her previous lives: a crippled survivor of fire and a loving schoolteacher. Both had sold away souls, only one of which was hers.

Jessica sobs in memory of what she gave up as Mary—"You'll be good to him?" she begs.

It nods, sulfur in the air. "I'll even let him keep Dean," it tells her.

Jessica asks, "What happens now?"

"We complete the deal. You've finished three lives, and that's all you'll get." It softens its voice to say, "You've lived more than most, Mistress. And to show how much I care for you, each of your sons will also have three lives."

She smiles and asks, "Please let me see them one last time?"

It nods, granting her final request.


	236. broke the wings off that little songbird

**Title**: broke the wings off that little songbird

**Disclaimer**: Dean, Sammy, and Johnny aren't mine; just for fun. Title from "Top of the World" by the Dixie Chicks.

**Warnings**: AU in a major way; character death

**Pairings**: Dean/OMCs

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 745

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sammy was fourteen the September he died. He played the hero, just like Dad'd always taught, and he died by some stupid kid's bullet.

That kid shot himself in the head about a minute before the SWAT team stormed the school.

Dad sank deep into depression and wasted away, finally dying a month later.

And Dean was left alone.

o0o

He tried hunting at first, his attempt at keeping Dad's legacy alive. Spent a year hunting, in fact, before a poltergeist—a weak one, a _young_ one—shattered his left kneecap and three ribs.

Once he'd healed up, without even a limp, a year was gone and the hunt no longer beckoned.

He'd barely graduated highschool, and no college would accept him on the grades he'd had—but he was a master at forgery.

So Samuel Johnson submitted his grades to Stanford. And Samuel Johnson got in.

o0o

He spent two years at Stanford before leaving. He wouldn't admit to enjoying himself—this was his honoring of Sammy's memory. He did well—better than—at Stanford. Made friends, made As, could become anything he wanted.

But it wasn't him. Not Dean Winchester.

And Samuel Johnson didn't exist. So he left the dorm one night, melted into the shadows, and vanished.

o0o

He wandered for awhile, eating enough to stay alive. He spoke rarely, never laughed—surviving, barely.

He wasn't honoring Dad, wasn't honoring Sammy—but they both left him behind. And he hated them for that.

Two years passed. Before he knew it, half a decade was gone since Sammy played the hero and fell with a bullet between his eyes. Half a decade since Dad withered away, not caring enough about Dean to stay.

Sammy would be nineteen now. Would probably be at college. Would be happy, most likely, in that world where Dean never truly fit, his playacting to the contrary not withstanding.

Dean turned twenty-three and celebrated by killing some bastard in a barfight. He knew he was floundering, lost, not the boy who'd buried Sammy, who'd buried Dad, who'd dug them up and burned them.

Three months later, he killed again. Another fight. And it was easy, so easy. The man's face broke beneath his fist, the man's skin tore, the man's eyes faded—and it felt so _right_.

No, Dean wasn't a hunter anymore. He ignored the monsters, the shadows, the ghosts, and the wraiths.

Instead, he went on a rampage from Florida to Washington, from Maine to California's base, from Canada to Mexico. He killed men with dark brown hair and green eyes, men who were taller than him—he'd imagine Dad's features on their faces, or Sammy's, as he fought them, as he ripped into them, as he left them dead or dying.

He killed and vanished, leaving no trace but the corpse.

o0o

And ten years flew by. Fifteen years since Sammy died, since Dad died, since Dean lost his reasons for being. He had twenty murders under his belt, though only he knew about them all. The authorities were after him, though he didn't have a name or a face yet—some guy named Henriksen headed the team. There was a profile of Dean, mostly wrong. Everything they had was lacking. Sadly lacking.

Sammy died. Dad died. They left him alone.

He knew the man he'd become would shame Sammy, shame Dad—anger them both. They'd probably hate him.

Maybe Dad would even put him down. Dean knew he'd let him.

So he went out and picked one final victim, a healthy guy about nineteen with sharp green eyes and dark brown hair, clocking in at six foot three.

o0o

Dean killed. He even tortured. But he never raped.

His final choice, named Jonathan, he decided to seduce. And it was easy, very easy. Dean was thirty-four and looked twenty-five.

After fucking the boy, Dean turned violent. But he'd picked well and the kid fought back.

Dean had placed a gun in sight, within easy reach. And his final choice fulfilled his most fervent desire by pulling the trigger and—

o0o

_"Don't forget, Dean," Sammy says as they separate for the day, Dean heading for work after dropping his kid brother at school._

_"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves him off. "Soccer, I know." _

_Sammy smiles at him. "It's fun. Dean, I'm **good** at it." _

_"'course you are," Dean smiles in response. "Next game's Thursday, right?" _

_Sammy nods. _

_"Okay. I'll get you at five, Sammy." _

_Sammy waves and Dean pulls away. _


	237. you came to know me well

**Title**: you came to know me well

**Disclaimer**: not my characters just for fun. Title and lyrics from Cyndi Thomson's "I Always Liked That Best"

**Warnings**: none, really. Takes place early in the series.

**Pairings**: light Dean/Sam wincest

**Wordcount**: 370

**Point of view**: second

* * *

_I like the way you came to know me  
Ya came to know me well, well, well  
I could go on  
So many things I miss now that you're gone  
Your love, oh yes  
I always liked that best_

o0o

One day, you'll turn around and he'll be gone. And it'll be right. It'll be the rightest thing since November and flames.

He won't say goodbye, but that's right, too. He'll never call, but you'll send him postcards, now and again. Letting him know you're alive.

He's said he won't leave again, promised, assured you there's nothing left for him away from you. You just nodded and tried smiling, just reached out to grasp his shoulder and stayed silent.

You'll let him keep the lie. But you know. This isn't his life, no matter what he says. This isn't his life and never has been.

Oh, he's good at pretending—he should be, since you taught him. He's good. But you're better.

This is his war, he says. So he can't leave. Even after Jessica's killer, Mom's murderer, Dad's demon—after the bastard is dead and gone, Sammy swears, he'll stay.

And you just smile, because you know the lie for a lie.

One day, you know, you'll turn around and he'll be gone. He'll leave a note, stained with teardrops, and he'll take a couple of weapons. He'll call once, maybe twice, to let you know where he's headed, where he ended up. And that'll be that.

Twice, his life was interrupted in November. And slipping back into it will be as easy as breathing.

He promises, with words and touches, with feathersoft kisses, that he'll stay with you forever. That he's been yours since the beginning. And you never tell him that you've held him in waiting, that he's always been meant for more than you'll ever have to give.

And one day, you don't tell him, he'll be gone. He won't say goodbye, and neither will you, and you'll send postcards, dial his number, you'll swing by to watch his wife and kids, and you'll wonder if he regrets what he left behind—

But you'll never ask. You'll never approach him after he leaves.

You did once before and only pain came of it. Only death, blood—fire.

And he swears he'll never leave you. Never again. You just smile and move towards the next hunt, content to keep him while you can.


	238. darkening sun

**Title**: darkening sun

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Born Under A Bad Sign"; AU, I guess

**Pairings**: um… NotDean/Sam, implied Dean/Sam, NotMegSam/NotDean, mentions of Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 850

* * *

_You know, Sammy, you should tell Dean what you _**_really _**_thought about his skin-thief_, the body-stealer says, letting its words reach him in the darkness where he's been shoved.

_Wh-what?_ he stutters, still weak from the fight to reclaim all its stolen from him.

It chuckles, letting the sound twine about him, like a giant man-eating saber-toothed cat. _Come now, Samuel_, it murmurs, reminding of Maleficent from _Sleeping Beauty_—_oh, Jess_, he thinks, _God, it still hurts_—and he feels a phantom hand on his brow—_but_ _I'm stuck in my _**_head_**, he refutes, _so I _**_can't_**_ have a physical body_—_You think too hard, lovely boy_, the demon laughs.

_So stop. Just pause, Sam. Let me shelter you within the darkness. Just rest. I promise, if you can trust a demon's word... everything will be fine in the morning. _

And he's so tired. Trapped in some hidden corner of his mind, he's never been so tired. So he just... stops.

o0o

He sleeps and it watches, sending him dreams. He is buried deep, where he shall never find a way out, giving it free-run of his body.

It filters through his memories; it has days before contacting Dean becomes imperative. Days. Days of freedom within a psychic's body, within _Sam's_ body.

It pauses on Sam's recollection of Dean's skin-thief, the 'shifter that wore his form. The imposter nearly killed Sam, and all it did and said still haunts him. _Oh, interesting_, it purrs, peeking in on Sam's dream—_prone on the cold floor, Dean's body above him, hands tight on his neck—_

_You dream of death?_ it asks, honestly shocked for a moment. But Sam doesn't answer, too caught up in the dream/memory.

o0o

_Sam can't tell if this is Dean or not, hands warm on his skin, eyes cold with rage. Dean—NotDean?—hisses and snarls, curses at Sam for leaving, for wanting more. NotDean—Dean?—slaps him, kicks him, slams him into a wall, and Sam can't fight, can't do anything but wait. _

Something's wrong_, a part of him whispers. _This isn't right

_But Dean, NotDean, just yanks his head down by the hair and says, "You bastard, how **dare** you leave me alone," and harshly kisses Sam, biting down on Sam's bottom lip and breaking the skin._

_Blood dribbles down Sam's neck and Dean, NotDean, (_this isn't right!)_ follows the trail, nipping and sucking, and Sam just doesn't know anymore…_

o0o

_Oh, **Sammy**_, it howls, using his body to double over in laughter. _You interesting boy!_ It can only suggest, not force, and it sending back the memory of that sewer, of the human-girl's house—Sam did what he wanted from there.

_I wonder if Father knows?_ it asks rhetorically, before shrugging with Sam's shoulders. _Not like it matters anymore. Father is too late and you, Samuel, are **mine** now._

It looks in the mirror of the hotel room, studying his form from every angle. "Mine," it says with his voice, his lips and tongue. It tries on a smile, a frown, a mocking smirk, a happy grin. It immerses itself in his soul and mind, wrapping every part of Sam Winchester around itself.

Dean's skin-thief failed because it _wasn't_ Dean. It assumed his form but was not his body.

And the demon in Sam's skin refuses to fail in such a way.

o0o

_He wakes, still stuck in the dream, unable to tell fiction from reality. _

_Dean, NotDean, something in Dean's body—presses against him, smiles with Dean's lips but his eyes are still cold, still cruel._

_"Mine," he whispers and Sam's voice is stolen, leaving him unable to cry out or demand answers. _

_A large form moves on the edge of his vision and NotDean—Dean—what, whoever it is—turns, so Sam looks._

_It's him. His body, identical in every way. _

_"Interesting," the double says._

o0o

It steals with his body, food, smokes, and drinks. It rapes with his body, two women and a boy. It keeps him locked deep inside, unable to see or hear anything but his dream.

But it lets him out when it kills the hunter, because this? It wants him to remember.

o0o

_The thing in Dean's body cants his head, appraises Sam's double. He pads over, moving smoothly like a panther, and the double smirks, reaches out to pull Dean close. Sam can't look away, can't close his eyes. _

_Can only watch as Dean's body fucks his and then they take turns._

o0o

It raises Sam's eyebrows when it looks in on his dream next and uses his voice to say, "Huh." Then it chuckles and continues, "I wonder if Father knows what you really are, Sammy. Wonder if he has any fucking clue at all."

Still covered in the hunter's blood, it calls Dean.

o0o

_There is nowhere to go. Memory and imaginings mingle, dance with each other, and he can't tell which is which. He' s stuck, hollow and fading, unable to find a way out, a way to freedom._

_Trapped. He is trapped in his body, trapped in his mind, and here comes Dean—NotDean?—again.  
_


	239. see through the eyes of the old

**Title**: see through the eyes of the old

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "An Innocent Man" by Billy Joel.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: onesided Dean/Sam, Dean/OFCs, OFC/Sam, OMC/Sam, Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 305

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_There are many things he does not deny. Late at night, though, separated by the small space between their beds, four years apart and two years of silence, Jessica's memory—he denies that he ever wanted more._

o0o

He had Dean's smile first. A little boy, always half a step behind his big brother, Dean's sunshine-grin his alone.

Not even Daddy—Dean's hero, Dean's hope, Dean's dream—could get a smile that equaled the one he gave Sammy for free.

o0o

He had Dean's kiss first. He kissed Dean first. He wanted to scream it at every girl his brother looked twice at, every girl who giggled and flipped her hair.

As boys, before Dean grew up too much, they hugged and kissed cheeks, foreheads, and Sam was content.

But then he watched Dean with girls, how he held and kissed them, drinking them down to the foundations, and the want was sharp within him.

o0o

Sam gave up his virginity in Indiana, then again in Iowa. Both times, he whispered _Dean_ as he came, though Dean was a town away.

o0o

He had Dean first, before anyone but Mom and Dad. He's had Dean from the moment Dean pressed his little hand to Mommy's belly and felt his brother move. He's had Dean from the moment Daddy said, _You have to watch out for him, Dean_, even before the _Take your brother outside, fast as you can_.

He had Dean until he left Dean behind.

o0o

_Dean's smile is still sunshine-bright, though tempered by time and weathered by disappointment. He flashes fakes of it at women, though he doesn't really try. _

_Sam wants, no matter how fervently he denies it. Too much, though, is between them, now. Years they don't share, and blood they do. _

_And Jessica. Always the memory of Jessica. _

_Dean will say no. So Sam never asks. _


	240. I knew the stakes were high

**Title**: I knew the stakes were high right from the start  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "The Cowboy Rides Away" by George Strait.  
**Warnings**: AU for season 3  
**Pairings**: Dean/Sam  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 215  
**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

The year's up tomorrow. Sam can't believe it's come so soon.

"Don't you dare die for me." Dean's voice is no more than a murmur, barely there. Sam just pulls him closer.

Dean'll leave the instant Sam falls asleep, will go far away so that Sam's not in danger, and Sam doesn't want to let him go, to lose him--

"Don't leave me," Sam whispers, burying his face in Dean's neck. "Please."

Dean twists his fingers in Sam's hair. "Gotta go, Sammy," he says. "But you live, okay? Go out there and fuckin' _live_."

"Don't wanna." Sam doesn't care that he sounds all of six again. "Not without you."

Dean's mouth is soft on his forehead, then his lips. "I don't regret it, Sammy. I can't."

Sam smiles, tears making the world swim. "I do."

Dean nods, wiping Sam's tears away. "I know." He inhales deeply, kissing Sam like he's dying.

The year's up tomorrow and Sam doesn't want to sleep away Dean's last moments.

"Why'd you make that deal?" Sam asks, even though he's known the answer from his first breath.

"Couldn't do anythin' else," Dean replies.

"I hate you for it," he whispers.

Dean's smile is like the sunrise. "I know."

The year is up tomorrow and Sam's helpless to save Dean.


	241. as our sad song plays

**Title**: as our sad song plays

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 110

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, last man standing

_

* * *

_i

_You know it always had to be you, Sam,_ Lucifer whispers, beckoning him closer. _You know this is always where things were going. You know this is the only possible end._

_No,_ Sam says, shaking his head, backing up. _No._

Dean looks from Satan to his little brother, useless knife clenched in his fist, and doesn't speak, but his eyes tell Sam everything.

Sam nods. Says _no_ again and stands tall at his brother's side.

Dean says _yes_ and Lucifer screams in frustration as Michael's wings unfurl, leaving Sam the last Winchester standing.


	242. Smirk

**Title**: Smirk

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Dead Man's Blood'

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 190

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

"We can have forever," he whispers, trailing his fingers down your face. "Just say yes."

"No," you answer, shaking your head just a bit, not looking at him. His hands are cold on your skin and you can't hear him breathe—a sound you've always known, even when he was all the way across the country.

"Sammy," he says, pulling back and looking up into your eyes, and it's a sin. It's a sin he's still so beautiful, and you hate him for it.

"You don't call me that," you tell him, trying to back up, to make sense of all this, and his fingers tighten on your chin. "You're not him."

And he smirks. NotDean fucking _smirks at you_, and it burns, it hurts so much, because he's _not_ _Dean_, but he _is_, and you just can't do this anymore.

"Forever?" you whisper.

NotDean smiles, but you decide it doesn't matter, because soon you'll be NotSam and everything will feel right again.


	243. the grave has but delayed them

**Title**: the grave has but delayed them

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Olga Levertoff

**Warnings**: future!fic AU. Maybe.

**Pairings**: fraternal wincest

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 333

**Point of view**: third

* * *

It ends in the middle of nowhere, when Dean brings a gun to a superpower fight. Demons in their true, Hell forms are battling angels, flaming swords and broad wings, and all the psychic kids have answered the call in their blood, going against normal psychics, if that's not an oxymoron.

And Dean just stands in the middle, face-to-face with Sam, Hell's chosen general and his baby brother. Lucifer's vessel. The End in human-skin.

Sammy.

"Do you forgive me, Dean?" Sam purrs, hands by his side and weaponless, as much as he can be. "I bet you do. Always ready to turn the other cheek for little brother, right?"

Dean's got a useless gun and two lifetimes of failure, and that's not even counting all his years in Hell.

"I do," he answers.

Sam smiles, liquid and slow, and raises a hand to touch his fingers to Dean's lips. "Heaven's not gonna win, Dean. Whose side are you on?"

Dean flicks his gaze past Sam, to the roaring demons and smiting angels, to the newest wave of kids, all the ones who escaped Azazel's demented game. He looks at the final battle of the greatest war since the first, and then he looks back at Sam. At Sammy.

"The side I've always been on," he says, tongue darting out to taste Sam's skin. He doesn't taste evil, not like the sulfuric air of Hell, smoke and blood and death, fear and pain and salty tears, and the chalky feel of bone. "Your side."

Eyes flaring sunbright, Sam's smile widens. Dean is engulfed in heat that cocoons him gently before lashing out at the battle. Everything screams, Dean can hear it—and then there is only silence. When the blinding heat recedes back into Sam's eyes, when the golden darkens into the familiar green, only Sam and Dean still stand. There isn't even dust left of all the combatants.

"Okay then," Sam says.

Dean lets the gun fall from his grip and follows Sam.


	244. This is an old game that we played

**Title**: This is an old game that we played

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: non-con

**Pairings**: Sam/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 340

**Point** **of** **view**: second

* * *

_"Sam." _

His voice is shredded, torn, broken, with the sound of your name rolling off as if he's in pain. You like it.

(Everything's new.)

"No, man, what're you _doin'_?"

He tries to push you away, but you don't even strain and he can't move you. The power rushing through your veins(virus) gives you more strength than you've ever felt before, even when you embraced Azazel's gifts for those fleeting moments.

(He pulled you back. He always has. But not this time.)

"Sam, stop—dude, please."

_Please_. Your brother, the greatest man you've ever known, your idol and your god and your dream… he is begging. His eyes are wide, his skin flushed, his hands uselessly pushing against your chest.

He is terrified. _Dean_ is terrified.

It's a good look on him. You reach out, pull him close, maneuver him just so. You nuzzle into his neck, licking and nipping. He groans. He whimpers.

_"Please,"_ he whispers, no longer even feigning to fight. "Stop, Sam."

But he is yours. He has always been yours. And now you finally have a way of keeping him forever. "Hush, Dean," you reply softly, stroking his hair, cupping his face in your hand. "It'll all be over soon."

You'll make it good for him, gentle. Not violent, like your own turning was. He deserves only the best, your brother. After all he's done for you over the years, you can give him this.

Dean sighs, sinking into your grip. "Please," he whispers again. He doesn't want this.

And that doesn't matter, because you do.

Your fangs slip out and you gently sink them into his throat. He groans—at the end of the breath, it becomes a moan.

"Sammy," he says. One final plea: "_No_."

Then he's silent, as you drink out his life, cradling him close as his heart stops. You sink down, your brother's shell in your arms.

But he'll wake again. Just like you did. And then you'll be together until the end of the world.

(Forever, and it just feels _right_.)


	245. ever the foreshadowing

**Title**: ever the foreshadowing

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Sam, Sam always has to be rebelling against someone

* * *

Watching him walk away, it's no surprise. A lifetime in the making, foreshadowing for years.

Someone has to be the villain for Sammy. Back in the more innocent days, it was Dad and his orders, his regime of one general and two soldiers. Then it was Azazel and Lilith, and Ruby the backstabbing liar.

And now it's the first villain of all, Lucifer the LightBringer, Prince of Lies. The first being to ever rebel.

_They have so much in common, our brothers_, Michael tells him. _How long until Sam says yes?_

"Never," Dean responds aloud, glaring at Michael in the dream. "Get out of my head."

Michael smiles. "Sammy needs to rebel against someone, Dean. And you're the only left. And the only way for him to rebel..."

He leaves the thought hanging and Dean wills himself awake.

No. Michael's wrong. Sam's not that stubborn kid anymore, or the vengeful lover, or the panicked, desperate brother. He's a warrior, a man who knows his path.

Sam will never say yes to Lucifer.

But Dean knows he will say yes to Michael.


	246. fall fashions for angels

**Title**: fall fashions for angels

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: somewhat crackish?

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Castiel, These clothes are Jimmy's; Castiel begins wearing his own.

* * *

The first day Castiel shows up in a tie-dyed T-shirt and army coat instead of what he's been wearing for over a year, Dean blinks, shakes his head, and moves on.

Whatever. More important things to worry about than Castiel's wardrobe.

o0o

The next time, instead of Jimmy's old outfit, Castiel is wearing a yellow T-shirt with a purple moose on it and a plaid pull-over, unbuttoned, with cream-colored pants.

What the hell. Not his business, but Dean keeps shooting him glances out the corner of his eye.

"Castiel?" Sam asks. "Um. What happened to your clothes?"

"I am trying out my own style," Castiel answers promptly. "Jimmy chose the old clothes, but I am not Jimmy, nor is this shell his anymore."

Dean and Sam share a look. "Alright," Dean says. "Moving on."

o0o

After that, neither of them say anything when Castiel shows up looking like a fashion reject. Dean knows what looks good, alright, and what Castiel is wearing... well. Those colors shouldn't be on the same body at a single time, okay? Okay.

But he bites his tongue to keep from laughing or giving Castiel fashion tips, because Castiel needs to find himself, and Dean owes him some respect. After everything Castiel has given up and done for him... Dean will mock him over the jokes he doesn't get and references he can't follow, but something so basic to humanity as finding himself... no, Dean won't laugh at him for that.

o0o

And then Castiel arrives in a blue shirt, dark jeans, and boots.

"Finally," Dean says, clapping him on the back. "You look good, kiddo."

Castiel smiles at him. "I am pleased, as well," he says.


	247. one word

**Title**: one word

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season five; crackish

**Pairings**: None stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: fringle

* * *

Sam has never truly appreciated just how expressive his brother's tone and face can be.

"And you'll keep him like this for how long, exactly?" he asks Gabriel, trying not grin at Dean's mounting frustration.

"Until he learns his lesson," Gabriel says, smirking. "Shouldn't mock tricksie archangels, kiddo," he tells Dean. "Never know what the vengeance might be."

Dean's glare is epically ferocious and his every desire is painted across his face. _I'll find a way to kill you_, his eyes promise. _Fuck the apocalypse—I'm comin' after you_.

What comes out of his mouth, bitten-off and enraged, is, "Fringle!"


	248. prodigal daughter

**Title**: prodigal daughter, there is no escape

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 435

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Kleenex

* * *

Mary's uncles took care of her parents' bodies. It looked like a break-in gone badly while she and John were on a date. John was confused but followed her lead.

Uncle Billy and Aunt Coreen let Mary live with them for a few months while she sorted through her parents' things, deciding what to keep and what to sell, what to give back to the family. Auntie Rose, Mom's great-aunt, took most of the hunting paraphernalia and distributed it amongst both sides of the family. Grandpa, Dad's dad, told Mary not to worry about a thing and sold the house in her name.

She and John married almost a year after she made the deal. John had no family and most of Mary's lived in Lawrence, so they stayed. They bought a new house to start a new life; Mary never told John about the years she spent as her parents' apprentice in a bloody, thankless war.

They named their first child Dean, for Mary's mother. Auntie Rose held him and said, "He will be great, lovie. He will truly change the world."

By the time Sam—named for Daddy—came along, most of the family had already passed, as hunting picked up. It was the largest explosion of activity in decades and Mary didn't want to know any more about it. No one said anything to Mary about Sam's birth, no warning or blessing, and she hoped that was a positive sign that maybe they'd escaped.

When Mary rushed into Sam's nursery that night, she wished for her family, her mother's and father's, because maybe together they could challenge Azazel. But everyone who might be a threat had already been neutralized.

Mary didn't cry as she bled onto Sammy. She cried later, when she saw her sons grown tall and strong, just as beautiful as the day she first held them. She cried in her soul as she exploded to kill the poltergeist threatening her babies.

She didn't go to Heaven, of course. She made a deal with Azazel, so she went straight to his palace in Hell after she finally died.

"Welcome, my dear," Azazel purred, twining around her. "I've missed you so."

Mary didn't cry in Hell until John arrived. "Oh, Johnny," she whispered, helping him to his feet from his sprawl on Azazel's bone floor. "Tell me you didin't."

"For Dean," John said, embracing her. "For Dean, I did."

Their first kiss in over twenty years is bittersweet, tainted by fire and blood. Azazel gives them a moment before he interrupts grinning, to tell John, "Alistair is waiting for you."


	249. they sometimes merge into each other

**Title**: they sometimes merge into each other

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: tag for 5.14 "My Bloody Valentine"

* * *

"You've hidden yourself pretty well," Michael says, crouching down next to him. Michael's still wearing young!Dad and it's so damn freaky. "Everyone thinks you're nothing, even you." Michael pats his cheek. "Keep thinkin' that way and it'll get you killed, Dean. Again." His fingers tighten on Dean's face. "But not before you say _yes_ to me."

"That'll never happen," Dean replies, yanking away. "Not ever."

Michael smiles and stands, holding out his hand to Dean. After a moment, Dean lets Michael pull him to his feet. "Dean," Michael tells him gently. "Your resilience is commendable. But it will damn the world, and your brother."

Dean shakes his head. "No. We'll save the world from you. Me and Sammy, together. From you and Zachariah and Lucifer."

"You are my vessel, Dean. You were made for me. You _are _me, only diminished. And soon enough, you will realize that." Michael's smile is sad and knowing. "As to your brother—he is my brother. It's truly that simple."

Dean wakes to Sam muttering apologies in his sleep and Castiel standing guard.

"Tell me it was a lie," Dean begs him, too tired to feel shame. "Him and Famine both. A trick."

Castiel lowers his head, avoiding Dean's eyes.


	250. the attempt to rise

**Title**: the attempt to rise

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title and poem excerpt from Emily Dickinson

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 290

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man_

_Comes up to face the skies_

_----_

His body is so weak. He can feel his heart slowing; soon, it'll fail and he'll die without ever seeing thirty, failing Dad and Sammy and Mama's memory. He's always wanted to go out fighting, saving someone. And he had, but Sam saved him just in time to suffer and shame their family name. No Winchester has ever been so weak as him in this hospital bed, barely able to breathe. Sam should have let him die in that basement.

(Death touches his face with a small sigh and whispers, _Not yet, Dean Winchester_.)

o0o

He looks at his body, unable to breathe without mechanical interference, and he winces. Damn, that's bad. He'd felt himself dying in the Impala's backseat, Mama's killer's fingerprints burning on his heart. And to see this, to watch Dad and Sammy see this—it hurts. It hurts and he has no idea how to fix it.

(Death touches his face, smile gentle and hand cold, and whispers, _You should come with me, Dean Winchester, but you won't, not yet._)

o0o

Lilith smirks at him and kisses Sam, and the hounds are howling. Dean has never been so afraid, and he looks at Lilith, taunting Sam across the room. He'll die for Sam. He's got no problem with that. But he doesn't want to go to Hell. He really really doesn't want to go to Hell, and he doesn't want to leave Sam alone, and it hurts so much, the hounds rip—

(Death holds out a hand. _Your time has come, Dean Winchester_. Death smiles and pulls him close. _But we'll meet again, because there is something so very special in store for you_.)


	251. absolution in crimson

**Title**: absolution in crimson

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 235

**Point** **of** **view**: first

**Prompt**: author's choice, sorry I couldn't save you

* * *

Uh, hey. Been awhile, I guess. Well, a couple decades—what's that, huh? Nothin'... for us, anyway.

Heh, sorry. This is just... I'm nervous, okay? I don't... I'm not. I mean. Uh. Fuck, I'm doin' this all wrong.

Well. I guess, what I wanted to say is thank you. I know you're not here—there was nothing to bury, after. Just for closure, anyway. So that when I was ready...

I _am_ sorry. I let you down, let everyone down, and I get that. I really do. Should'a been better, faster, stronger. Smarter, there at the end.

Maybe I should'a said _yes_ sooner, given everybody what they wanted. But I couldn't give up on you. I couldn't...

I really thought you'd come through at the end, some brilliant plan at the bottom of the ninth, score tied, bases loaded.

Did I use that metaphor right? Baseball was never my thing.

I know why you gave your consent. We both understand. I'm sorry I couldn't—

I actually brought you flowers. Pansy-ass shit, huh? I'll just... I'll leave them here, okay?

I'm sorry I let you down. I love you. Maybe somewhere up there, you can hear me? I hope so. I know I'll never see you again, but...

I know why you said _yes_. And I hope that one day, someday, you can understand why I said _yes_, too.

I'll go now. I'm sorry.


	252. when what they sung for is undone

**Title**: when what they sung for is undone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Dickinson

**Warnings**: mentions of torture; non-con; spoilers for everything aired; AU

**Pairings**: Alistair/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 845

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: partnership

* * *

Dean's Hell is cold, ice and snow and an Arctic wind snarling from the north. In his dream, he's there again, naked beneath Alistair's blade and Alistair's cock, which were so often the same thing, broken and bleeding and begging. He begged so much, _harder_ and _more_ and _please_, until he had no voice and no throat, until he was only a gaping maw, an orifice for Alistair's pleasure. And still he begged, too much and not enough, so pathetic and needy.

On the surface, alive and Above, he is still cold. Frozen where he should have a soul. He broke in Hell. Submitted and surrendered. Gave Alistair all his shattered pieces and let Hell's connoisseur of pain crazy-glue him back together so very wrong.

Sam can't see it, or Bobby. Castiel doesn't know what to look for. But Dean can feel that he's not right anymore.

(Remember, my dear. Remember and awaken. Let me out to play. You know me so well.

Remember. Awaken. I'm so very hungry, and you need me, Dean. You need me just as much as I want you.)

In his dream, he's in Hell again, spread wide for Alistair, but someone else is there, someone so familiar, so beautiful and dark, with bloody, ashy wings. "Careful, Alistair," the stranger (no, my dear, not a stranger at all) says. "Don't want to break him too much."

"Not your concern," Alistair responds, skinning Dean to the bone. "My time and my workroom here."

Just a dream. (Not a dream. A memory. Remember and let me free to play.)

Caged and leashed and chained, Dean was Alistair's favorite toy. But now he's free and dreaming and can wake whenever he wants.

(No, Dean. Think back. I waited for you in Hell. Why'd you leave me behind? You're not supposed to leave people, but I'll never leave you.)

In his dream, Alistair yields before the newcomer, angry and bitter and afraid. "Oh, Dean," he purrs while Alistair's fingers tighten on the hilt of his blade. "You look so pretty like this."

(Not) Just a dream. Wake up. (Awaken for me.)

And while Dean tortures Alistair, he feels something in his mind stirring, a chain loosening, but it falters when Alistair breaks free.

Until Lucifer rises, Dean can pretend. But then, _then_—

In his dream, the newcomer kisses him, and they have the same face. The newcomer's wings are bloody and soot-stained, and he says, "Open your eyes, kiddo. I'm waiting. Let me free for you. It'll be glorious, me and you together."

Dean opens his eyes and hears a chain snap as everything slots into place. He slowly sits up, glancing over at Sam, then past him to Castiel, leafing through Dad's journal.

Castiel freezes as Dean stands and stretches his wings. "Michael?" he whispers.

"Not exactly," Dean answers. ('bout time.)

Dean's Hell was cold, but he wasn't alone there, and now he folds his wings around himself, trying to get warm. As he moves toward Sam, Castiel lunges to get between them, and Dean pauses.

"You think I'd hurt him?" Dean asks. He doesn't know whether to be offended or not. "The two'a you are probably the only people in the world safe from me."

That's a good idea, actually. Two years out of Hell and he's still cold. Maybe it's time to start lighting things aflame.

(Alistair taught us well, dear one. Shouldn't we go share with my brother and all the rest?)

Dean smiles at Castiel and carefully moves him aside. Gently, he touches Sam's shoulder, marking him, and then turns to the angel who saved him. (Too late.) "You burned some sigils into my bones, Cas. Only fair to let me return the favor."

Castiel stands strong when Dean marks him, too. Dean's impressed. But Castiel is still weakened away from Heaven's grace, and Sam's suffering through the last of withdrawal, and even with Michael's brand warding them, they'll need some extra protection while he goes to clean the world.

"Gabriel," Dean calls. "To me, little brother."

(We have so much work to do. The beginning's always the best place to start.)

"Holy _shit_," Gabriel whispers when Dean's summons yanks him into the room. "This is not what I expected. At all."

"Keep them safe while I'm away," Dean commands.

(We learned so much beneath Alistair. Let's go share the knowledge. First the angel that left us there, that hurt Sammy, that ordered Castiel's death.)

In his dream, Alistair cringes away from someone with Dean's face, someone with wings that blot out Hell, someone who smells like gunpowder and sunlight. "No," Alistair whispers. "That's impossible."

"Make him ready for me," the someone says. "Twist him and break him. He must fit me. I'll fill him up and we'll be whole again, my soul and me."

(Mine, Dean. Mine and yours and us and ours, I and you and me, together us whole complete. Eternally.

Us mine yours we together whole forever. One.

Who is ours? Brothers. Protect defend save. Sammy. Cas.

Alistair. I thank you. We fit perfectly.)


	253. There are hidden corners of the sky

**Title**: There are hidden corners of sky

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov.

**Warnings**: "What Is and What Should Never Be" dream 'verse

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica, Dean/Carmen, John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 505

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Sam graduates, he sends invitations to the whole family. Top of his class at Stanford law—he's got something to be proud of, after all. He knows Mom will come, no doubt of that. But Carmen mentioned, last time she called Jess, that Dean is still having some trouble differentiating between reality and his mind.

Sam isn't sure he should send Dean an invitation. Even if Dean remembers who he is, he knows that Dean's always been a nervous flyer. Dean has never believed that planes are safe, so maybe, for everyone's peace of mind, he should just cut Dean out of his life. Still talk to Mom, but pretend he doesn't have a brother. Dean is an embarrassment, a constant source of grief and anger.

"You can't do that," Jessica tells him when he mentions the idea. "It isn't right, Sam. He's your brother, and he's sick. He needs your support."

Sam hasn't ever really mentioned the hardships of having Dean for a big brother. How everyone always saw Dean, but so rarely noticed Sam. How Dean could have gone anywhere, done anything, if he'd just tried. Instead he played baseball and coasted by with passing grades. And then, his last game of junior year, he ruined his elbow. No more pitching, and too late to salvage his GPA.

But Sam, _he _applied himself. He took gifted classes. He vowed to get out of Kansas and Dean's shadow, and he succeeded. He's graduating from Stanford law, and Dean's in Lawrence, a mechanic who had a breakdown.

He loves Dean. Really, he does. But he can barely stand his brother. Dean's so much work, a disappointment. Sam's tired of him.

But he remembers being a kid, and Dean patiently teaching him how to throw, curve and slider and fast. Riding a bike, 'cause Dad was so often busy or drunk. Dean gave him the attention Dad didn't, all the way until Dean got to middle school. And then Dean became the cool kid on campus. He no longer had the time for a geeky kid brother.

"Who read to you?" Jessica asks one night, a month before graduation. "When you were young, who helped you love literature?"

Sam kisses the hollow of her throat. "Dean," he whispers. "It was always Dean. Dean is why I'm here today."

Jessica smiles at him. "So let him celebrate with you, if he wants. He may well be the boy you remember, not the man you know."

So Sam labels an envelope and mails his brother an invitation. He doesn't ask his mom or Carmen if Dean plans on coming or not. Dean has medical concerns, after all, and he hates to fly.

But Dean is sitting with Mom and Jessica and Carmen as Sam walks across the stage, and Sam feels buoyed, like the first time he threw a curve ball and Dean crowed in proud joy.

Sam meets Dean's gaze, face shining with a wide grin, and Sam hopes that maybe things will change now.


	254. weak spot

**Title**: weak spot

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place during season one's "Phantom Traveler"

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: panic attack

* * *

He has to get on the plane, because he sure as hell ain't lettin' Sammy go alone. But his legs won't work.

Sam comes back with tickets and a smug little smile. Dean glares at him, takes a deep breath, and follows him to the gate. He can do this. He has to do this.

He'll do what needs to be done. Same as always.

(When he completely loses it on the plane, he hates himself a little, for being so damned weak. And while Sam mocks him for a hundred things, he never once brings up that disastrous flight.)


	255. fear me, love me, do as I say

**Title**: fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Labyrinth_.

**Warnings**: SPOILERS for 5.19

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 820

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: acorn

* * *

_You are more than my vessel_, _Sam_, Lucifer tells him quietly as they watch Dean play baseball. It's clearly a dream: Dean never attended LSU, never played any sport Sam can remember, and Lucifer sure as fuck never sat beside Sam on the bleachers. Dean looks so young.

_Oh, calm down, Sam_, Lucifer admonishes him as he jumps to his feet and backs away_. I just want to chat._

Sam takes a deep breath and settles back on the bleacher_. I—I have a question_, he begins hesitantly.

Lucifer smiles, partly proud and partly delighted. It makes Sam both nauseated and worried that he kinda wants to smile back. _You can ask me anything, Sam_, Lucifer says.

_Okay, make that two questions_, Sam amends_. First, why do you keep repeating my name?_

Lucifer chuckles. _It's a good name, and it reminds me of Heaven. Second question?_

_Second… _Sam darts a glance to Lucifer's eyes, since Lucifer hasn't looked anywhere but Sam since he sat down, and then he gazes back at the field, where Dean's pitching two-hundred mile-an-hour fast balls. Definitely a dream.

_Second_, Sam starts again, taking strength from his brother's renewed faith in him. _You're just an angel. How can you kill gods?_

Lucifer sets a hand on Sam's shoulder and Sam flinches away, his gaze shooting back to Lucifer. _Samuel_, he says gently. _My father is the Creator. He created everything, including the lesser gods. But I am older than everything except Father, and with age comes tremendous power._ He pauses, turning to face the game, clapping as Dean gets the third out, and he nods toward Dean. _He's killed gods, my dear. So have you. You didn't really think the power lay in the weapons you used?_

He reaches for Sam again, and this time Sam lets him maintain contact. Without pause, Lucifer continues, _Yahweh is Allah is Brahman is Chaos is all the rest. God is all of them, is none of them. God is a tyrant and an adoring father, a daisy and a sun. He is air and stardust, and beyond your puny comprehension, Samuel Winchester. I can kill what you call gods because they are __**not**__ God. They are his creations, no better than the archangels._ His hand tightens on Sam's shoulder_. I kill angels. So does your brother._ He shakes Sam slightly. _So_ _do you. Tell me, vessel mine, what do you think this means?_

Sam doesn't reply, just clenches his jaw and his fists. Lucifer laughs softly. _No human, Sam, no matter how virtuous or strong, can kill a demon, an angel, or a god._ He leans in close, whispers in Sam's ear, _You are no human. You killed the most powerful demon, you destroyed a horseman, you unlocked a cage sealed by the greatest unfallen angel of all._ A soft kiss is pressed to Sam's temple and he shudders.

_Be not afraid,_ the Star of Morning tells him. _You are my vessel, a part of me. Mine and my own, my gift and my chosen, my blessing. You will consent because you cannot deny my call._

Sam finally pulls away, shooting to his feet to tower over the Devil. _Not ever_, he hisses. _Leave me alone_.

Lucifer smiles again, and Sam lashes out, slamming his fist into Lucifer's lying mouth. Lucifer only laughs and slouches back, grinning. _Mine_, he says simply. _You feel the truth, Sam. You always have. I kill gods because I am better—I am first, best, brightest of all. You kill gods because you are mine._

_That doesn't make any sense!_ Sam shouts, beyond frightened and annoyed all the way into pissed.

_Of course it does_, Lucifer replies. _My father gave humanity free will. He also gave them a choice in who to worship. It doesn't matter what 'god' anyone worships; if they're good and righteous and kind and adopt puppies and plant trees, they go to Heaven or whatever equivalent they believe in. That might actually be one of the nicer things Father did._ Lucifer pauses to smirk. _If you discount all the religious wars that resulted from it. _

Sam shakes his head. _Sam_, Lucifer says, so reasonably Sam has to struggle to find a way not to listen, not to be reeled in and fall. _Say yes to me, Samuel. What was created can be destroyed. Don't you want to make them all pay for everything you've endured?_

_Let me wake up_, Sam pleads, anger giving way to weariness. _Please._

_As you wish, _Lucifer says.

The first thing Sam does after lunging out of bed is run to the bathroom and puke into the toilet. The second thing is muffle sobs with his fists. The third is swear again that he will never consent.

He ignores the part of him whispering, _It doesn't matter if you say yes or not_. It sounds like Lucifer, and it sounds like the truth.


	256. far to go

**Title**: far to go

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: apocalyptic future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: traffic

* * *

Sam never really thought he'd miss rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper, thirty-minutes-to-move-a-mile traffic. He never believed he'd miss the greatest hits of mullet rock, either. There's a lot of things he never considered.

The final battle's come and gone, and he's still here. Of course he is. He's a vessel without an angel, a general without an army, a king without a throne. He's a baby brother, and an older brother, but his brothers are gone. Michael took them both and Lucifer failed at getting them back, and Sam's alone in this wasteland, alone with the destruction and remains of a world.

He trudges and he curses and he weeps, but none of it matters. This is his punishment and he'll endure it, and maybe God will one day take pity and return him to Dean.


	257. yet revenge

**Title**: yet revenge

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton.

**Warnings**: torture

**Pairings**: implied Alistair/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 150

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: burger

* * *

Back when he still held onto his bravado, cheap armor against Alistair's razor and Alistair's smile, Dean would talk about what he loved from Above. It didn't take him long to learn that Alistair would twist everything he mentioned, turn it from pleasure to torture. Soon enough, Dean flinched from memories of shooting a gun or fucking some girl or the taste of beer. He never told Alistair about Sam; Alistair found out anyway, and that nearly broke Dean.

But from somewhere he could never name and hadn't known existed, Dean found strength, and he told Alistair about the best triple-bacon cheeseburger he ever had. He ignored the pain, the blood, the fire and ice battling in his open wounds, and he spoke even after Alistair ripped out his throat.

Alistair didn't visit for three days after that. Dean knew it wasn't really, but he counted it as a victory.


	258. Somewhere there's a stolen halo

**Title**: Somewhere there's a stolen halo

**Disclaimer**: Dean&Sam aren't mine; title from Big&Rich

**Warnings**: vampire!AU

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: calorie

* * *

"Hey," Dean laughs, leaning back. "Dude, this one tastes like a Big Mac." He shoves the man towards his brother. "Have a sip."

Sam grabs him and sinks in, gulping down hot blood. "You're right," he says after pulling out. "Guess now we have to find some fries."

He lets the man fall, slumping down to lie motionless on the floor. Dean crouches and yanks him far enough up to finish the meal. Sam moves on to the man's wife, shielding the two kids with her own body.

"Please," the woman begs. "Don't hurt them."

Sam smiles. "It won't hurt, ma'am."

She sobs, pushing herself backwards, staying between Sam and a sweet treat.

Dean stands back up, wiping at his mouth. "Lady," he says, "quit puttin' off the inevitable, 'kay?"

Lunging forward, Sam grabs the woman's arm. The kids finally start screaming, but Dean takes care of them, slamming the boy into the wall and gently nipping the girl's neck.

Sam's meal tastes like strawberries, and Dean tells him the girl's blood is chocolate. They share the boy before they go, and leave all four where they fall.

"Should we clean up?" Sam asks at the door.

Dean pulls him in for a kiss and they exchange the last remnants of their dinner, reaching deep into each other. "So glad we don't need to breathe anymore," Dean mutters when they separate. He swoops back in for a quick bite, nibbling on Sam's lip until it bleeds so he can lick up the drops.

Sam chuckles, stroking the back of Dean's head. "I'll take that as a no." He leads the way to the car, setting into his seat with a satisfied sigh. Dean starts the car, crowing with the roar, and they hurry away into the dawn.


	259. No one thought how precious it was

**Title**: No one thought how precious it was

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 260

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: peeps

* * *

Easter morning, Sam gets up and finds two baskets on the kitchen counter. He carefully approaches and gently examines them, searching for anything dangerous.

One has the shower gel Jessica favors, a handful of miniature Reese's, blue Peeps, and new charcoal pencils. The other basket has aftershave Sam hasn't seen since a novelty store in South Dakota, a Hershey bar, a generic cereal box toy, and a gorgeous knife honed razor sharp.

He hears Jessica stirring, so Sam quickly secrets the knife away. The rest, though, he lets remain out. Jess doesn't have to know Sam's not the one who remembered Easter.

Sam's kind of annoyed that Dean got in and out without waking him, but not surprised.

"Sam?" Jessica says, entering the kitchen with a yawn. She pauses when she sees the baskets, but then she smiles. "Baby, did the Easter Bunny come last night?"

He shrugs; she chuckles and sashays to him, pulling him down for a kiss. "Thank you," she whispers against his lips. Before he lets her go, he presses a kiss to her forehead. Jessica gleefully explores her basket and Sam watches her, smiling. She bites the head off one of the Peeps and saunters back to Sam, settling against him.

"Want some?" she asks, offering the headless Peep. He nibbles at it, kissing her fingertips.

"I love you, Jess," he says.

"Come back to bed," she whispers in his ear. He lets her pull him to the bedroom and makes a mental note to call Dean later, and then he focuses completely on Jessica.


	260. check yes or no

**Title**: check yes or no

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired; AUish

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 250

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam Winchester, five times he said no and one time he said yes

* * *

When Sammy was four, Daddy wanted him to sit quietly while Daddy flipped through some old book. Sammy wanted Daddy to play. Dean was busy trying to wash clothes, and he didn't want to play either.

Sammy couldn't sit still long, so he marched up to Daddy and _demanded_ that Daddy play with him _right now_.

Daddy told Sammy to go sit back down. Sammy shouted, "NO!"

o0o

When Sam was nine, not long after he learned the truth, he asked to go on a hunt. Dad asked if he'd ever looked evil in the eye, if he was ready for that.

Sam said, "No."

o0o

When Sam was thirteen, Dad told him to get his ass outside with his brother and train.

Sam had a history test the next day, so he said, "No, _sir_."

o0o

When Sam was eighteen, Dad ordered him not to leave. Said they needed to stay together, that Dad and Dean needed him.

Sam looked over at Dean, and Dean dropped his gaze.

So Sam said _no_ and Dad said _if you leave, don't come back_ and Sam walked out the door.

o0o

When Sam was twenty-four, he watched Dean get ripped apart by hellhounds.

The only thing he could think or scream or whisper was _no_ but it didn't matter.

o0o

When Sam was twenty-seven, Lucifer offered him a deal.

Dean said, "Sammy, don't."

Sam looked away and asked, "If I don't?"

Lucifer smiled. "You know what'll happen then."

Sam closed his eyes and muttered, "Yes."


	261. to thine own self be true

**Title**: to thine own self be true

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Shakespeare.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 215

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: substantial

* * *

Dean is so familiar with Sam's body that it comes as a shock when Lucifer fills him to the brim and uses every molecule of his size. Dean hangs limp in his grasp, looking into Sam's eyes. Like Sam's hands, they've been hijacked by Satan.

"I know Sam didn't say _yes_," Dean tells him. "You manipulated and you tricked and you lied. He didn't say _yes_ to you."

Lucifer smiles, and it's not an expression Sam's ever worn, so praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. "Does it matter how I slid into this perfect form? I'm here now and Sam is mine, every last part of him."

Dean doesn't fight or struggle or try. He lets Lucifer beat him, and he slumps to the ground when Lucifer releases him, and he lays there, broken and dying, and he calls to Sam's broad back, home of Lucifer, "Tell your brother I'm waiting, if he still wants me."

Lucifer doesn't pause or slow, and Dean laughs, feeling Michael slowly pour into him.

_You are stubborn_, Michael informs him, standing and flexing his wings.

_Kill the fucker_, Dean commands, _so that me and Sammy can rest,_ and then Dean turns away from the world, finding a dark corner in his soul, where he can dream.


	262. hope for the future

**Title**: hope for the future

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 75

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: graduate

* * *

"Dude," Dean grumbles, slapping his hands away. "Quit fussin'."

Sam ignores him, brushing something off Dean's shoulder. "Don't be nervous," Sam tells him.

"I'm not," Dean lies. He shifts back, catching Sam's hands. "Dude, I'm fine. Really." He smiles up at Sam. "This is for you, Sammy. I'm good." Dean presses a kiss to Sam's knuckles and lets him go.

Dean walks away; Sam takes a deep breath and hurries to find a seat.


	263. steady as an oak tree

**Title**: steady as an oak tree

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 265

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: oak

* * *

If there's anything in the world Dean can trust, it's that Dad will always win. Well, and that Sammy will be annoying, so two things. Two things in the world he can trust. Dad will win and Sam will annoy the shit out of everyone in his vicinity.

It's really cold. He can see his breath and he quit shaking a while ago, and he's really pretty sure that's not a good sign. The fugly hasn't even checked on him once that he's noticed, just snatched him and dumped him here in the fucking Arctic tundra, and he's really tired. Not even cold anymore, just so sleepy…

But he's gotta stay awake 'cause Dad is looking for him, and Sammy's probably got him really mad by now, so Dean has to be conscious when they show up to calm them both down. He's the peacekeeper. They'll kill each other if he's not around.

Dean doesn't register when his eyes slip closed. He's barely alive when Dad and Sam burst into the underground chamber and Sam chants a long-dead language while Dad battles the revenant of a Mongolian warlord haunting a piece of pottery. Dean doesn't see how frantic his brother and father are, how they pace in the waiting room and loom over nurses and shout at doctors for the entire week Dean spends inside his head.

But Dean wakes up to them arguing about something even they can't remember and all is right with the world.

Dad will always win and Sam will always annoy everyone ever and Dean will keep the peace.


	264. iron and marrow

**Title**: iron and marrow

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU after "Fresh Blood"; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: Dean/Sam

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 145

**Prompt**: vamp!Dean and vamp!Sam + Adam, they find their brother

* * *

Sam learned about him in a vision, his first since this whole thing started, and he could _taste_ how perfect the kid would feel sliding down his throat.

Dean had grumbled but couldn't refuse Sam anything-so little has actually changed, Sam knows, except that when whoever the fuck comes for Dean shows up, he'll rip them apart because _no one_ is taking his brother, no one, not ever, Dean is his all the way to his marrow.

"Tell me this kid's name," Dean says, nipping at Sam's jugular.

"Adam," Sam mutters. "Adam Milligan. He's our baby brother, Dean."

Dean skims his mouth lower, pressing a kiss to where Sam's heart used to beat. "Let's welcome him to the family, then, Sammy," Dean chuckles.

Sam grins, pulling Dean up to kiss him properly, already wondering how much pain it'll take to make Adam scream.


	265. find a new God

**Title**: find a new God

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: one-sided wincest

**Pairings**: OMC/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: john

* * *

Sometimes, when Sam's doing whatever he does on the computer and Dean has an itch he needs to scratch, he goes to the closest thing to a roughneck bar whatever speck of dirt town they're in has, and he makes himself available. It's dangerous and stupid, but exhilarating, and whatever Sammy might say, fuck him.

Dean doesn't take the first or second or third who approaches him. It's gotta be a certain type—taller and broader than him, quarter century older than him, dark hair fading to gray, still in pretty good shape.

And yeah, he knows how that sounds. He doesn't care. Sometimes, he just needs to feel alive, and the best way to do that is to hurt. He'd seen the look in Dad's eyes enough times, but Dad never asked, and the one time Dean offered, Dad left for a week, and Dean couldn't really explain to Sam why.

And tonight, Dean's found a guy who looks similar to Dad. He hasn't taken his eyes off Dean all night, and he challenges Dean to pool, and Dean smirks, licking his lips, because Dad left him behind without a word, and this man, he can tell, won't be gentle at all.


	266. a marble of blood

**Title**: a marble of blood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: bridge

* * *

There's a gap in Dean's memory. By human reckoning on Earth, it's four months long. By Hell's count, it's much longer. Alistair would say forty years, but that's still a mortal's number and very lacking. There is no measure for how long Dean spent as Alistair's plaything turned pupil. Not a timespan comprehendible for a human. If Dean had spent more time with Alistair, though, he would have come to understand.

There is a gap in Dean's memory, from the hellhounds' bite to choking on air in a pine box. Four months says the newspaper, Bobby's disbelief, Sam's desperate grip.

The memories don't come back all at once. A flash here, a jolt there, nightmares and daydreams.

The gap is bridged soon enough by Alistair's smirk, and Dean knows that Hell's talons will never let him go.


	267. see you in the future

**Title**: see you in the future

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 195

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: study

* * *

"Hey, stranger," Brady says, sinking down into the chair across from Sam.

"Brady!" Sam sits up from his slouch. "You look better."

Ducking his head, Brady smiles. "Yeah, I'm clean now. Thanks, Sam. You saved my life."

Sam's answering smile is shy. "Anyone would'a done the same."

Brady grabs his hand, grip firm and warm. "No, they wouldn't've, Sam. I can't ever—you are the best person I know."

Sam isn't sure how to reply, so he just squeezes Brady's hand and holds his gaze. After a moment, Brady lets him go.

"Anyway," Brady says. "There's this girl in my art history class and she's a psych major. I remember some of that bullshit you rambled, tryin' to keep my attention. I figure, maybe she can help set you straight, you know?"

"Okay," Sam replies.

Brady smiles again, brilliant and bright, and it's like the past six months never happened. "She'll be at Luis' study group tomorrow night. Her name's Jessica." Brady stands, leaning across the table to grip Sam's shoulder. "I can't ever pay you back, Sam. I owe you my life."

Sam watches him go and then looks back at his history text.


	268. graduation

**Title**: graduation

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam, contemplation

* * *

Despite what Dad thinks, Sam spent a very long time considering the pros and cons of leaving. He weighed the thought of Dean without back-up against the possibility that one day Dean'd need a pretty damn good lawyer. He wondered if not having Dean's smile would be worth not having Dad's tirades.

It wasn't just about getting away. And the final tally was dead even.

What tilted the scale in Stanford's favor was when Dean just looked at him silently instead of asking him to stay.

(He still wonders about that. Why Dean didn't meet his eyes. Why Dean didn't plead and rage. Why Dean kept quiet and let Dad dig the hole deeper. He wants to ask sometimes, whenever Dean makes a bitter, trying-to-be-sarcastic comment or calls him College-Boy. But he never does.)


	269. I shall neither flinch nor flee

**Title**: I shall neither flinch nor flee

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_

**Warnings**: slight AU? Spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 345

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: diet

* * *

Sam stops eating after Lucifer tells him the truth. Maybe the devil will bring him back if he actively kills himself, but if he wastes away? It'll be slow and drawn out. If he's lucky, Lucifer won't notice.

(He's never been that lucky, but he's trying to think positive.)

When Dean calls him to let him back in, Sam hasn't eaten for a couple days. He's hungry, but not in dire straits. He gets burgers for Dean, that first week, and says he ate on the way back; they don't have time to sit down anywhere, so the lie holds.

And he's so hungry. It's almost as bad as the all-consuming need for demon blood, and he actually collapses in the bathroom, where he'd been hiding from Dean's supper.

Before Hell, Dean would have noticed. Sam knows this is only what he deserves. His sins and failures have been on repeat in his head for the past seventeen days. He should be punished. He's weak and selfish and nowhere near good enough.

"Sammy?"

Why can't he die? He's died before. Dean should have left him dead on that muddy street in Cold Oak. Then Dean wouldn't have gone to Hell. The world would be better if Dean had never made that deal.

"Shit, Sam—damnit. When's the last time you ate?"

He shouldn't be here. He makes everything worse. He's a monster, vessel of the serpent, designed purely to ruin the world. He needs to die, so that everyone else can live.

Sam doesn't even notice when he finally blacks out. But when he wakes up in the hospital—he does notice that.

And Dean scowling at him—he notices that, too.

"If you ever stop eating again," Dean grits out, "I will hold you down and force-feed you the greasiest burger I can find. We clear?"

Sam nods. The relief on Dean's face takes him by surprise. "We'll have to start small," Dean says, sounding calmer. "Soon enough, we'll get back to where we were."

Sam hopes so. He has his doubts, though.


	270. roughdrafts and masterpieces

**Title**: roughdrafts and masterpieces

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 290

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: any/any, The shot heard around the world.

* * *

It wasn't until a couple hundred years later that anyone really realized just what Samuel Colt had made. Oh, they found the prototype of course, what ended up being called the DemonKiller. Some fools even tried to use it on the Devil himself, like that ever had a chance of working.

No, the DemonKiller wouldn't have worked on Lucifer, or Michael, or Azrael, or Joshua. Or the Father.

It was Colt's rough-draft, after all. A work in progress, and he was making strides in the right direction. And then... well. It's not like God _wants_ a weapon around that could kill Him. So things happened and the weapon got lost.

But things that get lost are eventually found, and Sam Winchester had long since misplaced his sense of humor and his compassion and his ability to forgive.

And it wasn't really like the world needed Lucifer or Michael or Azrael or Joshua anymore. So one by one, the last Winchester hunted them down to make them pay. Nearly a hundred years since his brother got beaten to death by the MorningStar, since Azrael collected Dean's soul and took him away, to somewhere Sam couldn't follow. After everything, separated for eternity...

Well, in place of his humor and compassion and mercy and all those other nice things, Sam had rage and hatred and an endless wellspring of power.

And the DemonKiller didn't do anything but tickle the Devil. But the GodSlayer, that was another matter entirely.

And finally, God looked into the eyes of His own death and said, _This won't bring him back_. Dean's soul had been returned to the cosmos decades before, after all. God had spoken His commandment and Dean's soul was gone.

Sam said, _I know_.


	271. paved with

**Title**: paved with

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Rating**: PG

**Pairings**: none

**Wordcount**: 75

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean & the Impala, sometimes he thinks that damn car's the only thing he'll ever be able to keep with him.

* * *

She was there when he was conceived, Dad said one time, and she's been there almost every time he's nearly died.

He bled out in her, he was born in her, she's taken all his grief and anger and despair, and she's never left him behind.

He pats her hood and stares up at the stars and tries to imagine that somewhere, Sammy is, too (except he knows, there are no stars in Hell).


	272. spread your wings, you stupid kid

**Title**: spread your wings, you stupid kid

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: preseries

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean; he wants his brother to be happy, but he also wants him to stay by his side

* * *

Sam won't be safe in Stanford. Dad and Dean both know that, and so does Sam, when he's not being stubborn. Sam won't be safe in Stanford, but he's not safe with them, either. No one is safe anywhere because evil is everywhere, but at least with Dad and Dean, they can help when something tries to eat him.

Stupid, stubborn Sam. He's Dad's son, alright. Self-righteous, arrogant, always gotta be right.

Both of them, so goddamned stubborn.

Sam won't be safe in Stanford. But he might be happy. Away from Dad, he might be happy. Away from Dean... away from hunting. It's not the same as leaving Dean, Sam's assured him of that, but Dean knows better.

Sammy can't remember Mama, or that night, or how the fire roared, reaching for them. Sammy doesn't remember Daddy, just Sir. So Sam wants Stanford and normal and _safe_ and he doesn't know, can't know, not yet, that safe is a myth. Just a fantasy, and away from Dad and Dean, he won't have back-up. He'll be alone.

But he might be happy. And it's not like Dean's gonna be that far. He'll check up on the kid, and he'll have some people he knows stay close to Sam.

Stupid, stubborn Sam.

So Dean watches him board the bus, even though the kid doesn't know (_already letting your guard down, Sammy, bad form_), and he lets his baby brother go.


	273. the last stand of a dying man

**Title**: the last stand of a dying man

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: character death; AU; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 230

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam & Dean (and anyone else), they almost got away

* * *

Dean's dying in a coma, Dad's quiet and tired, and Sam is silently freaking the fuck out, angry and bitter and so damn weary, and he's praying and praying and praying, on his knees in the chapel, by Dean's bed, staring at Dad and begging him to make everything better.

And Dad just looks at him, so very tired, and he says, "I got nothing, Sammy, I don't know, I can't-"

And this isn't what Sam wanted, when he asked Gabriel for a do-over, but he _doesn't know that_ because Gabriel wiped everything away, all the future-knowledge, of angels and vessels and God walking the Earth.

This John Winchester doesn't know Azazel's name. This John Winchester doesn't make a deal. He thinks about it, he wants to, his fingers are itching to draw the symbols and his tongue keeps starting to form the words, but he doesn't know Azazel's name and Bobby Singer died a few weeks ago, neck sliced clean-through by Azazel's daughter.

This Dean Winchester listens to a reaper calling itself Tessa and will never house God's Sword. And this Sam Winchester's heart breaks, clutching close his brother's still-warm corpse, and dies during a routine hunt a month later.

And this John Winchester, in this world made by Gabriel's meddling, whispers _yes_ with teary sigh when Michael steps into his dreams and asks him to help save the world.


	274. his mother's eyes

**Title**: his mother's eyes

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: thoughts of incest, underage

**Pairings**: John/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John/Dean, the day they almost told each other how they felt

* * *

Sometimes, John really can't help how he looks at Dean. It's just... he's so damned beautiful. He looks so much like Mary.

And Mary would castrate John for thinking these things, he _knows_ she would, and that's usually enough to make him stop. To go cool off with a shower or a ten-mile run or a visit to the nearest bar for a willing body.

But it's getting more difficult because Dean is starting to catch on. And he's so eager to please... John knows that if he ever said the word, Dean would obey. And that kind of power, it's really fucking with John's mind.

And there Dean is, just watching him back. Waiting. John's pretty sure he'd offer, if John ever did anything more than hint with a look, and Mary would _destroy_ him for the way his gaze slides down Dean's body.

John would destroy anyone he saw giving his boy that look. And Dean _is_ boy, his son, his soldier.

Dean's mouth opens, and that's when Sam slams through the door, already ranting about something that happened at school.

John breathes, closes his eyes, and swears to Mary nothing will ever come of this.


	275. if not us

**Title**: if not us

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: preseries, slight AU

**Pairings**: fraternal wincest

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 125

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Sam, He almost convinces Sam not to go to Stanford

* * *

He could do it. He could open his mouth and ask Sam to stay, or say he's so proud of him, or mention how it'll be harder to hunt, more dangerous, with one less pair of eyes.

He could get down on his knees, or press Sam against the wall, or whisper into his mouth _stay, stay, don't leave me._

He could.

(He could also go with Sammy, get out of this life, make something of himself, but who will look into the dark and fight the monsters if he doesn't? Who will die if he's not there to save them?)

But he just looks away when Sam turns to him after Dad's angry and hurt declaration, and Sam storms out the door.

He almost follows.


	276. most important meal of the day

**Title**: most important meal of the day

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 290

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean, Mary, breakfast with Mommy

**Notes**: this started out as fluff; it ended up kinda angsty

* * *

First, they break the eggs into a bowl. Mama lets Dean do that part, and she laughs when it explodes, covering him in a gooey mess. Mama stirs up the parts that actually made it into the bowl, and then Dean smushes a chunk of butter in the pan.

Mama lets Dean turn the dial so that the stove heats up, but she won't let him mess with anything else until after the eggs are cooked.

Dean gets to push the bread into the toaster and turn it on, and pick out the jelly, too. He chooses strawberry, 'cause that's Mama's favorite.

He settles down to watch the toaster while Mama portions out the eggs onto plates. When the toast pops up, Dean tries to grab it, but Mama catches him and grabs it herself.

She butters the toast, but lets Dean slather the jelly onto the bread. She asks him to carry the bowl of sliced strawberries to the table and sets his plate of toast and eggs at his place. He waits until she's settled their cups of milk (chocolate, for him) and her own plate of breakfast, and then she tells him to pick out the strawberries he wants.

Daddy's asleep because he had the late shift again, so Mama sets aside some for him.

"And now, baby boy," Mama says, "let's eat."

He doesn't wait for the prayer, because Mama doesn't pray. Daddy does, sometimes, but Mama hardly ever does, even though there's an angel in Dean's room.

The angel says his name is Michael, and that he and Dean will be best friends one day.

Mama smiles at him from across the table; Dean knows his mama is the most beautiful woman in the world.


	277. check this hand 'cuz I'm marvelous

**Title**: check this hand 'cuz I'm marvelous

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Lady GaGa

**Warnings**: takes place during season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 85

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, angels and karaoke probably don't mix, but Dean's sure it'll at least be hilariously awkward

* * *

There is drunk angel on stage. Two hunters sit at a table, empty glasses lined up, one after the other. Another angel smirks at them, chocolate bar in hand.

As the music starts, one of the hunters buries his face in his hands, groaning, "Oh, fuck no."

The sober angel smirks harder.

"Dean," the other hunter says. "Dude. Please stop him."

And Castiel, the littlest angel that could, belts out Lady GaGa's "Poker Face" while Dean contemplates saying yes to Michael just to make it stop.


	278. Majestic though in ruin

**Title**: Majestic though in ruin

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: Lucifer/Sam

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Lucifer!Sam, a valiant effort and an inevitable failure

* * *

_Samuel, beloved, dearest of all_, Lucifer murmurs, wrapped tight around him, warm wings and hot breath, _mine and my own, Samuel, my house and my home, other half of my soul... accept your fate. Embrace me._

Sam tries not to listen. He really and truly does.

But he's trapped in a dark room with two angels and the other one won't speak. Michael stays in his corner and keeps his own counsel, and Sam's trying so hard not to listen.

There's nothing else to hear, and Lucifer's wings are so warm, and his arms so tight, and his words so gentle...

And he says, _Be content in knowing you could never have won_.

Sam lets his head rest beneath Lucifer's chin and closes his eyes. And he whispers, _I'm so tired_.

Lucifer smiles, and his lips are a soft caress on the crown of Sam's head, and Lucifer is so warm.

Sam knows he could never have won, and he's weary of fighting. Dean's not here, and Michael won't speak, and Lucifer…

Lucifer holds him close and promises to never leave, and Sam is listening.


	279. the ice palace

**Title**: the ice palace

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 235

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: any, it's always winter in hell

* * *

Dean comes back in autumn, before the chill sets in and the world freezes again. For awhile there, he doesn't even notice the weather, too shocked at being alive.

(He dreams of fire, at first, since he can't remember. He dreams of fire, and in his sleep, he's warm.)

He doesn't flinch from matches or lighters, doesn't jerk back from the flames in graves. He's not afraid of fire, and Sam wants to ask, he can see it in the kid's eyes. But Sam holds his tongue, and holds his brother, and Dean stands beneath the sky, eyes toward the sun.

(He dreams of fire, until the fire turns to ice, and then he's cold all the way down to his gutter soul.)

Winter sets in with a roar while they're in Maine. It starts to snow and Dean—flinches at the first snowflake that settles on him, and goes somewhere else. Sam can't rouse him, no matter how loud he shouts, until he has a stroke of genius and flicks the lighter a few inches from Dean's face.

Dean focuses on the fire and breathes. Sam bundles him back into the Impala, finishes the hunt—glad beyond all measure it's only a simple salt-and-burn-and heads south fast as he can.

Soon enough, Dean readjusts to the cold, to snow and blizzards and icy wind. He never talks about it, but Sam knows.


	280. what's real and what's not

**Title**: what's real and what's not, and what's lost but never found

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series; an allegory; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 110

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean, fate comes knocking on this stone-cold door.

* * *

When Dean was very young (knee-high and following Mama around the kitchen), he had a stuffed bear named Destiny. Mary found the bear at the same garage sale she got the cherub figurine from, and it slept in Dean's crib until he was old enough to carry it places and leave it in the dirt. Mary washed and scrubbed that bear a thousand times, but it never ripped or lost its fur.

Dean's favorite book as a child was _The Velveteen Rabbit_. He kept waiting for Destiny to awaken and talk to him.

The bear burned in Sam's nursery with Mama and Dean never had another stuffed toy.


	281. I bought a cheap watch

**Title**: I bought a cheap watch from a crazy man, floating down Canal

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Jimmy Buffet

**Warnings**: takes place during Hurricane Katrina; spoiler for season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 385

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean, _"I was working my own gig. This voodoo thing down in New Orleans."_

_

* * *

_

A hunt led Dean to New Orleans, late in August. It seemed easy at first, but then things got a bit twisted, and Dean wasn't paying attention to the news. He noticed people leaving steadily, more every day, and then—

Well. He'll always remember that moment. He'd finished his hunt early that morning, and he was sleeping when rain lashing against the window woke him. It was an abandoned house and he watched through the window as it stormed outside.

And then the street began to flood. The water just kept coming, so Dean moved to the second floor. When that didn't actually help because more water poured in, he went through a broken window onto the roof.

He looked around and all he saw was water. He heard screaming from the next house over, so he hopped the roof and found a way in.

For the next three days, he searched out people in the neighboring houses and helped them onto roofs, gave them whatever food he could find. He was ecstatic that he'd left the Impala with Bobby for the duration of this hunt, and even happy that her engine had that unexplained grumble.

When the guys with boats came, Dean made everyone else go first. He even convinced one of them to take the four dogs and three cats he'd been looking out for.

As people were brought to the Superdome, Dean stayed with the boats, determined to help. It was all so crazy, and he wanted Dad there. Dad could've taken charge, kept everyone sane and on target, and Dean actually shot a guy who attacked someone on his crew. He'll never set foot in a helicopter again, that's for damned sure.

Dean stayed in New Orleans until Rita, and then he just... he had to leave. He went north to Bobby's, and there he rested, for the first time in a month. Bobby asked no questions and Dean offered no explanations.

When he got Dad's voicemail, he drove to Stanford and hoped that maybe getting back on the horse would make the nightmares go away.

Eventually, his nightmares about storms and planes and boats and dead bodies floating down the street would be replaced by nightmares about razors and screaming and fire. He's not sure which is worse.


	282. rebirth day

**Title**: rebirth day

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5; slight AU; future!fic

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean - Resurrection Day

* * *

Usually, his birthday passes unremarked. Ever since he realized his birthday was also Jessica's, he tried not to mention it. He's always hated to cause Sammy pain.

And then Dean dies. And while he's in Hell, Alistair celebrates all forty birthdays—that's why Dean knows how many years pass in the Pit.

And then Dean wakes up in a pine box, buried in a shallow grave.

The next two years are very busy and he dies a couple more times, and then Lucifer is dead and Sam's back from his own stint in Hell, and, well...

Dean doesn't celebrate his birthday.

But the day he was gripped tight and raised from Perdition, after everything...

Sam and Castiel make him a cake, almost destroying Bobby's kitchen. Crowley and Gabriel compete for most outrageous present while Bobby tells embarrassing stories about Dean as a boy.

His rebirth day never passes unremarked after that.


	283. never a dull moment

**Title**: never a dull moment

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place early in the series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 55  
**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean + Sam, explanation

* * *

"There is totally a good explanation for this," Dean says as Sam walks in the door.

Sam looks around, taking in the soapsuds covering the floor, every piece of furniture, the walls, and... parts of the ceiling?

"I'm sure," he replies, raising an eyebrow, and crosses his arms across his chest as he waits to hear it.


	284. return to sender

**Title**: return to sender

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 6.1

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point of view**: third

* * *

The thing is, Dean always knew Sam was coming back. He ate pizza with Death once, and sometimes, Death stopped by for coffee while Ben and Lisa slept, and Death said, _your brother is not mine to keep._

So, yeah. There is that. And he loves Lisa, and he adores Ben, but Sam came first. Sam's always come first. Sometimes, Dean thinks he didn't exist before Sam.

And he always knew, while sleeping in Lisa's house and teaching Ben to fix an engine, that Sam would return.

And the night after Dean sent Sam away, to the Campbells and Bobby, Death stops by for coffee.

Death looks at Dean with dark eyes. Dean doesn't flinch away. When Death smiles and says, _your brother is not mine to keep_, Dean nods.

There's a ring on his finger and no amulet around his neck, and the pale horse in the backyard tosses his head.

Dean didn't exist before Sam and Sam always comes back.

Death sips his coffee while Dean sits at Lisa's table, and he wonders when Sam will realize that things have changed.


	285. balancing on a razor's edge

**Title**: balancing on a razor's edge

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 6.2

**Pairings**: mentions of Alistair/Christian

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean & Christian, Dean makes him sorry for his comments about Hell

* * *

Dean studies him, the next couple times Sam calls for help, watches this cousin he never knew about. Just a kid, really.

This kid would've shattered beneath Alistair, begged and pled and whimpered and sobbed and bled so _so_ prettily—Dean can see it, playing across his eyelids, this kid broken, moaning and groaning, crying for Alistair to stop, for _harder_ and _sharper, please please please!_

This kid who doesn't know, can't know, won't ever know because Alistair is dead.

_Alistair is dead, yes,_ a tiny, broken, dark and bloody and damned part of Dean whispers, watching the kid, this breakable little boy that Sammy spilled secrets to; _Alistair is dead, but his greatest pupil... well, razors are sharp, Dean, even out of Hell, so beautifully sharp, waiting for you to wield them again._


	286. I wish I could touch you again

**Title**: I wish I could touch you again

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 5.22

**Pairings**: Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 120

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, Pink - Who Knew

* * *

Deep inside, Dean always knew. It always happens—everyone he loves eventually leaves him. Just a matter of time. For awhile there, he'd thought Castiel might be different. His own guardian angel. Saved him from Hell. Kept swooping in to save the day. Chose him over all of Heaven.

And then... restored to his former glory, even took a level in badass, and left.

Shocker. Dean bets there's not a soul in creation who didn't see that coming. Except for him.

Because, for awhile there, he'd let himself believe that someone would stay. But Mama left, and Daddy left, and Sammy left more than once, so, naturally...

Of course Castiel left. It was always only a matter of time.


	287. the final prayer

**Title**: the final prayer

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 6

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 160

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam + Lucifer, "But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?" - Mark Twain

* * *

He prays that one day Lucifer will reach the point he asks forgiveness. Sometimes, he prays that God will have pity, or reach out his hands to pull Lucifer close, the most prodigal of all sons home at last. In that scenario, Sam almost always thinks of himself as the fatted calf. He's not sure what that says about him.

Sometimes, Sam prays that God does not forgive His most arrogant, hateful child. That's usually because he's been thinking of Dean, and Jessica, and Dad, and Mom, and everyone else he's ever known, everyone Azazel and Lilith killed. The whole world.

And sometimes, when he's feeling particularly spiteful, there in the Pit with Lucifer and a pissed off angel and the shell of a little brother he barely knew, sometimes, Sam prays that Lucifer reaches the point where he asks himself for forgiveness. Sam knows from experience how much that hurts, and that prayer is not for mercy.


	288. the best of all things

**Title**: the best of all things

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5; blasphemy

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 330

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, (Mother) Mary, There was a reason it was *her* sons that were chosen to doom the world - or to save it

* * *

She has lived before, she has lived for always, she was first and she will be last...

_mother may i—  
mary mary, quite contrary,  
how does your garden grow?_

In the beginning, she was. There is no time prior to her awakening, and there will be no time after she sleeps. Alone and lonely, she crafted existence.

Tired of always being far from her creations, she was born as a mortal. She became many mortals.

As a mortal, she created another being, something like her. More, unique, the best of all things.

_let this cup pass from my hands  
why have you forsaken me?_

And now, she knows the time has come to live again. To be the mother. To carry a savior inside her, something _more_. Unique. The best of all things.

As a mortal, she feels half-asleep, unable to grasp or wield the true magnitude of her power. And as the woman Mary Winchester, she has two sons: one to save and one to damn, one for Hell and one for Heaven, one for Michael and one for Sammael.

No. She stares into newborn eyes, eyes that saw the beginning, eyes that will see the end. Her first creation, her best creation, her favored. He is yet incomplete, even now, countless eons since she first fashioned him in her hands.

Her second child, this life, he screams in anger and fear as she forces him from her body into the waiting hands of his father, a mortal warrior hardened by fire and death. And she smiles as the firstborn, brilliant and shining, gently brushes his fingers along his baby brother's cheek.

_mary mary quite contrary  
how beautiful your garden is by light of the moon_

Yes. She has lived before, she has lived always, she has lived and lived and lived.

Her sons to save, her sons to destroy, her sons in the beginning and at the end, unto the edge of forever and beyond, her will be done.


	289. falling and flying

**Title**: falling and flying

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: mentions of might-be Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 120

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Any; Any; Just to feel alive

* * *

While they were separated, when Dean was in-between hunts, trying to heal a little bit, he went to the Grand Canyon because he'd never been there before and wanted to go.

He went in time for the sunrise, watched all the tourists, and just thought about life, about Hell, about destiny and regret and hope.

He thought about Mama and Daddy, about Sammy, Azazel, Alistair, Lilith, and Lucifer. About Michael and consent, about Castiel and what-if, might-have-been, could-be, should-be, and maybe…

He stared down into a giant hole in the ground, carved by time and water, and wondered, just for a moment, if being a vessel meant he'd have wings, and what would happen if he just…


	290. hunting

**Title**: hunting

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: sometime in season 2

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam +or/ Dean, deer hunting

* * *

Last time they were in these woods, they were prey. Chased by black dogs, Dad shushing them as they ran, trying to load a shotgun and keep track of two kids—Dean's not sure how they survived.

Sometimes, he thinks they didn't.

But this time, this time they're the predators, him and Sammy.

He knows Bobby is trying to find them. He knows he should be worried, that it's a spell of some kind. That this isn't him, this bloodthirsty _thing_, insatiable and angry, and it doesn't matter. It really doesn't.

Bobby should just be glad he's focused on that herd of deer moving through the trees, because there is a town a few miles away.

Sammy lifts his head, tilted to hear better. He flicks a glance at Dean and Dean nods.

Time to move out. There's hunting to be done.


	291. by this thorn

**Title**: by this thorn

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU during season 5

**Pairings**: implied Lucifer!Sam/Dean

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 150

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Lucifer, Breathe Me

* * *

_hear me, boy, hear me and know-i've won, you've lost, all is done and this is it_

It's a beautiful garden. A beautiful day. The sunrise is brilliant, the garden blooming by its light, and the birds sing, a chorus ascending into the sky...

So beautiful.

It's all a lie.

_say yes, say yes, your brother already has, i'm him and he's me and we're together in this skin, say yes, say yes, quit fighting—you'll never win_

He is the Prince of Lies. You've already experienced the worst, so nothing else matters.

You won't give in because that's the last card you have to play. His victory isn't complete, no matter how beautiful the garden, how brilliant the sunrise, or how loudly the birds sing.

He's already won everything else, so you'll deny him this.

_i can wait, boy, i can wait forever._

but you can't.


	292. almost

**Title**: almost

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: either AU during season 5 or future!fic

**Pairings**: pre-Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 105

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, in the nick of time

* * *

Later, much later, after everything is calm and his heart isn't thundering, his hands aren't shaking, his chest isn't heaving, he'll realize how little chance he actually had of succeeding. He'll torture himself with might-have-been and almost-was, with how very _very_ close he came.

Later, much later, he'll watch a sleeping once-angel and think, _I nearly lost this._

Later, much later, he'll think, _I nearly lost you before-_

And later, much later, Castiel will open his newly-human eyes, will blink at the sudden sharpness of light, and he will say, with a roughened voice, "We both are here."

And Dean will think, _But you almost weren't._


	293. crown of thorns and cross of razor

**Title**: crown of thorns and cross of razor

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU; dark

**Pairings**: implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:290

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Castiel, Castiel was supposed to save the Righteous Man. Instead he ending up joining his side.

* * *

A year has passed since Lilith's hounds tore Dean Winchester apart, twelve short human months. But in Hell, on Alistair's rack and beneath Alistair's razor, Dean spent ten thousand years before finally saying _yes_, and two thousand years at Alistair's side, learning the art of torture.

(He actually only refined a skill he already possessed, but Zachariah overlooked that.)

Castiel pulls Dean close, grips him tight, and rises from Perdition. And when Dean summons him, Castiel looks upon the man he saved and sees only Alistair's touch, the lingering traces of Hell that perhaps Father could erase, but no one else can even begin to fade.

(He is meant to be the Righteous Man's guide, lead him to Michael, show him the path and have him say _yes_.)

Dean is unlike any man Castiel has ever watched or guided before. Alistair's mark on him never leaves; instead it deepens, burning into Dean's soul even more. Castiel never knew him before Hell, but Sam-Lucifer's Vessel-speaks to Castiel of his fears, that something vital to Dean was either destroyed or left in Hell.

And Castiel, a low-ranked angel, sent only because he was so weak the demons wouldn't even notice him, realizes when he kills Uriel for threatening Dean, that he may have left something in the Pit, too.

(Two brothers more demon than man and a fallen angel stand against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell.

It's nowhere near a fair fight, and God has left the solar system. Both those kingdoms need a new ruler.

Two years after Lilith's hounds tear Dean Winchester apart, Sam kills Lucifer to take his throne, Castiel destroys Zachariah for command of Heaven, and Dean stands between them, smirking, Alistair's razor in hand.)


	294. God will grow no talons at his heels

**Title**: God will grow no talons at his heels

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Wilfred Owen

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**:180

**Point** **of** **view**: first

**Prompt**: John/either young Winchester, _Arms and the Boy _- Wilfred Owen

**

* * *

**

Dean as a toddler had this laugh, fuck, but it was beautiful. Like the sound of sunshine after a long storm, when the clouds pass and the rain's gone. He'd grin and all the world'd light up.

I took that laugh away, you know. Me and my crusade, my guns and my training, how often I told him to focus, quit playing, _look after your brother, Dean, grow up, boy._

I told him to grow up. I stole that laughter, and his sunshine-grin.

He still smiles. He still laughs. But never so loud, never so long, never enough to paint the world with his joy.

That smile, that laughter, it was just like his mother's, and now she's even more out of my reach, just like that toddler he used to be, always so happy to see me.

I gave my boy a gun and told him to shoot. Only his brother gets the full glow of his grin and the total abandon of his laughter anymore.

I turned my child into a warrior and losing his laughter is only my due.


	295. 5 ways All Hell Breaks Loose didn't go

**Title**: Five ways All Hell Breaks Loose could have gone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for "All Hell Breaks Loose"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 560

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

**A**

Sam says they need to work together, that the only way to beat Yellow-Eyes is if they stand side-by-side. "My brother will help," he promises, "and there are others, friends. We don't have to go it alone, Jake."

Ava, Andy, Lily. Scott, Ansem, Max. No telling how many others before or after.

Jake looks at him for a long moment. Sam waits, ready to dodge, duck, or strike. Finally, Jake nods.

They leave that town shoulder-to-shoulder, and meet Dean and Bobby on the road.

**B**

He sees how this will go. Been dreaming about it for weeks now, this ghost town and all the dead haunting it. Ava, Andy, and two strangers, all four dangerous.

Terrified Lily is the easiest, and Andy the one he regrets. Ava had killed before and wanted to kill again, so he doesn't hesitate. And Jake, the soldier—Jake would have killed him, even if he didn't want to, so Sam shoves the knife into his throat. Three broken necks and one stabbing, and Sam's the last one standing.

He ignores Yellow-Eyes clapping and hurries through the woods. He's gotta find Dean.

**C**

Lily goes off on her own: easy.

Jake tries fighting Ava's little pet, but you can't beat what you can't touch.

Andy screams and there's no iron around for Sam to use.

And finally, Sam. He looks at her, so sad. So disappointed.

As Sam's brother kills her, Ava laughs.

**D**

He'd hoped that maybe Sam's powers had nothing to do with that God-forsaken town, but it's Sam's twenty-third birthday in a few weeks and Dean's dreams have been getting bloodier with memories in the last couple nights.

The diner is stained with demon and Dean knows exactly where to go. He should stop for backup, for someone he can trust, but there's no time, not if Sam can get out unscathed.

He and Dad had never talked about that week he went missing, a few months after Sam left for Stanford. Dean came back as quietly as he left, and Dad didn't ask.

Maybe Yellow-Eyes hadn't planned for Dean, and he ignored Dean when they met up again, but Dean won't let him get Sammy. Not Sammy.

The ghosts part before him, and the demons scamper away, and there are four people with Sammy. Two he recognizes, Andy and Ava. Mind control and visions. Ava's been upgraded, though, if the demon dancing to her tune is anything to go by.

She'll be first, then.

**E**

_If you wanna get back to your brother_, Yellow-Eyes whispers, _you'll need to win, Sammy. Dean's in danger, you know. Universally hated by my kind. And hunted by yours. _

_The others here will kill you, Sam. You're a threat. My favorite. It'll all there, in your head. Everything you need to know. To save Dean you have to save yourself. _

When Ava makes her move on Lily, Sam lets it happen. When she goes after Andy, he waits. When Jake kills Ava to save him, Sam thinks, _One left_.

When Jake tells him only one of them can survive, Sam says, "I know." When Jake attacks, Sam strikes with Max's telekinesis and stops his heart.

He can feel them all, each ability. They died in his presence and their abilities came to him.

_There are more_, Yellow-Eyes says. _Dozens. My favorite_.

Sam ignores him and starts walking.


	296. don't you cry no more

**Title**: don't you cry no more

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: any, The field where I died

* * *

After the world doesn't end, after Sammy jumps into Hell and pulls Lucifer, Michael, and Adam down with him, after Castiel goes to Heaven, and after Bobby goes home, Dean returns to an empty field in Illinois. Trees are still down in a perfect circle, and there's still a sad-looking cross at the head of a shallow grave.

Dean sits at the edge of the hole, placing one hand on the cross. Sam dug him this grave, and Sam fashioned this cross, and Sam laid him to rest here. Sam always knew he'd come back. Sam always knew that goodbye wouldn't last, Lilith's hound and Lilith's laugh.

But this time… Dean doesn't know what to do. He made a promise to Sammy. Now he has to decide if that promise is as empty as his multiple graves.

He closes his eyes, listening for his baby brother's voice, hoping that Sam is listening for him, too.


	297. we've been here before

**Title**: haven't we been here before?

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: pre-Michael/Sam

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 700

**Point of view**: third

**Supernatural**, Dean (or Dean/Sam if author prefers), Dean is a rogue angel

* * *

Sam Winchester is an orphaned only child. His mother died in a house fire, his father in a drunk-driving accident, and he was raised by good, God-fearing folk in Wichita, Kansas. He's known for as long as he can remember that he wasn't their son. He knows they only took him in for the points such a selfless act might get them when they die. But still, they treated him well: made sure he was clothed, fed, and sheltered. They didn't love him, though. He always knew they didn't love him.

When Sam is twenty-three, after he's been at Stanford for four years with plans for law school and a fiancée named Jessica, he wakes up in a ghost town among half a dozen others. They each have abilities, stuff from fantasy novels and sci-fi movies. Sam hadn't thought his dreams meant anything, but he's seen all these people before.

And one by one, they die. Sam relies on instincts he didn't know he had to stay ahead of the killer, and then Ava is smirking at him, Ava who he saw, months ago, kill a man who tried to kill her. And then Jake, superstrong Jake who lifted a car off his buddy, snaps Ava's neck, and he looks at Sam with apologetic eyes.

(In Hell, Alistair's greatest pupil breaks the First Seal by saying yes and taking the razor and slicing _down_. She doesn't remember her parents or her husband or her miscarriage five years before her son was born.)

Jake lunges for Sam, who knows he can't win. Jake's a superstrong trained soldier. Sam goes to the gym twice a week and knows a little self-defense he doesn't usually need since he's a head over six feet tall. But Sam has a silver-tongue, so as he dodges back and to the left, he starts talking. He just lets the words flow, bullshit and entreaties and plans for how they can work together, him and Jake, figure out what that yellow-eyed bastard wants and then go their own way. Hell, they could rule the world.

But Jake doesn't listen and keeps going for Sam, a dull, rusty knife in hand, and Sam knows he's dead.

And the moment Jake touches him, _something_ throws Jake off. He hits the ground hard enough to go half a foot in, and his body is _broken_. Sam can tell from where he still stands, gasping for air.

That something is suddenly there, standing next to Sam. He's a little over six feet tall, with dark blond hair and hazel eyes, and he's got to be the prettiest man Sam's ever seen. He turns to face Sam, head tilted and gaze sharp, and he says, "So you're Sam Winchester. Huh."

More people are with them, appearing out of nowhere—a small woman with red hair, a short guy with long brown hair, and a guy dressed like John Constantine.

"What the fuck?" Sam asks. The first guy laughs and Sam is hit with déjà vu so strong he shakes from it. He's dreamed about this guy, whoever he is. Dreamed about them all.

"My name is Michael," the guy says. "These are Anachel, Gabriel, and Castiel."

And no, that's not right, Sam's sure of it. But as the guy, Michael, keeps talking, the certainty slips away.

(The Final Seal is never broken. Lucifer stays in his cage, Michael destroys Zachariah, and Chuck Shurley never finds a publisher.

Sam Winchester is an orphaned only child, his mother is never Raised from Hell, and his father spends eternity reliving his wedding night in Heaven.

And Sam dreams about another life, sometimes, where he had an older brother named Dean who never said yes to the archangel Michael. But when he wakes to Michael smiling at him, he ignores those dreams and doesn't wonder about the vessel housing Michael in this life.

Anachel tells him, once, that if an angel is powerful enough they can create a vessel. And Castiel mentions, offhand, that Michael had watched Sam for a long time before approaching him in Cold Oak. Gabriel likes to mock Michael for his voyeuristic tendencies, and taken all-together, Sam's subconscious knows what he never truly realizes.)


	298. the parable of the loaves

**Title**: the parable of the loaves

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to season 6

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Note**: at a family dinner, my dad said to use _you'd better order extra bread_ as a story idea. So I spent the next few minutes writing this in the notebook I carry everywhere.

**Another note**: I wrote this before I saw 6.7, so it's slightly AU.

* * *

"You'd better order extra bread," Gabriel said. He paused to drain his coke then continued, "Don't forget to feed the ducks, Sammy—they're God's creatures, you know."

Sam blinked at him before looking around the diner. "Gabriel?" he asked. "I'm dreaming, right?"

Gabriel smirked. "'course you are, buddy."

Sam nodded. Gabriel tossed a shrimp at him. "Eat up, then feed the ducks. Don't forget. You never know who you'll find at a pond."

Gabriel reached over and tapped Sam's forehead.

o0o

Sam woke to see a stained motel ceiling. He was alone, Dean off with Ben and Lisa. Dean didn't even know he was alive.

For some reason, he wanted to go to a pond and feed ducks. He shook it off, of course. He had more important things to do.

o0o

At a pond, a baglady sat on a bench and broke bread into pieces. A gold amulet glowed on a chain around her neck.

She waited all day, but her prodigal son never arrived.


	299. after the birth of the simple light

**Title**: after the birth of the simple light

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: vaguely implied Castiel/Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**:100

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean +/Cas +Sam, they find an abandoned angel baby/egg

* * *

Dean names the egg Metallica. Castiel gives him that _you're a weird human, but I love you anyway_ look, and Sam rolls his eyes and declares that after the egg hatches, he has naming rights.

A week later, the shell splinters and a tiny little girl with fluttery wings curls up in Sam's hands, fitting snugly in his palms.

He names her Gabriella and Castiel gives him a sweet smile. Dean just says, _askin' for trouble, dude_.

And the little girl, Gabriella Marie, blinks her dark brown eyes at him and he thinks, _it was all worth it_.


	300. You who wrote out your own death

**Title**: You who wrote out your own death

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: AU for 6.5; character death

**Rating**: PG13

**Pairings**: Dean/Lisa, Dean/Sam

**Wordcount**: 250

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Dean, Sam didn't realize his mistake of letting Dean be turn into vampire until Dean turned him. Vampires mate for life.

* * *

Dean felt his soul die as he drank Ben down. Now he and Sam were a matched set.

He let Ben's bloodless corpse fall and spared Lisa's horror-filled face a single glance. His prints were all over the house anyway.

He needed to find Sammy, to show him what _monster_ truly was. The Winchesters, both late of Hell, one Alistair's greatest pupil and one vessel to the Star of Morning—hunted by the law, feared by the hunters, hated by the supernatural.

_You look into the dark and the dark looks back,_ said some wise man once.

_True that_, Dean thought, deciding he still hungered.

In her shock, Lisa didn't even scream.

And Sammy waited for him, the man who had been his brother a trip to Hell ago. The man who let this happen to him.

The boy he used to croon lullabies to, the boy he fed and clothed and taught how to live. The boy he let go to Stanford, the boy he carried out of more than one fire, the boy who died in his arms and he sold his soul for.

Sammy waited for him, and Sammy was his, and he would destroy anything that got in his way back to Sam.

Sam was his, and stolen blood rushed through him, demanding he claim his mate, and he left the house where he lived a half-life for a year.

And Sam's scent wafted on the air, calling him home, so Dean went.


	301. divinity

**Title**: divinity

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 445

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John + wee!chesters, Sam & Dean find a stray black kitten.

* * *

It's a tiny ball of fluff, too young to be obviously male or female, and Dad's off at work, so Sam carries the kitten inside. Dean's training in a field not far from the apartment complex and will be back soon, and Sam opens a can of the tuna Dad likes so much to mix with the last of their milk, and puts the bowl in front of the kitten on the counter.

The kitten meows in a heartrending, tiny voice. Sam gently shoves it toward the bowl. "C'mon," he says. "You gotta be hungry, little guy."

o0o

By the time Dean's home, the kitten's eaten maybe a fourth of its meal and Sam's worked out how they can keep it. He's also decided its a girl and named her Spooky because she's all black and Halloween is tomorrow.

"Sam, we can't keep a kitten," is the first thing Dean says after he walks in and sees her.

"Yes, we can!" Sam says and proceeds to tell him how. It involves constant hiding and sneaky trips to the vet, and Dean listens to the whole thing before shaking his head.

"It's not fair to her, Sam," he says gently, running a finger along Spooky's tiny spine. She purrs and rubs against him, so he carefully scoops her up to hold her against his chest.

Sam smiles, sure that his plan is already working.

o0o

Dad comes home after midnight. Sam's still wide awake; he's been keeping Spooky company. Dean, even though he's tired, helps Dad to bed, while Sam hides Spooky in his jacket.

In the morning, Sam wakes up in a panic because Spooky isn't on his pillow anymore. He stealthily searches the apartment, including Dad's room, but Dad isn't in there.

Dad's in the kitchen, a tiny black fluffball in his hands. "Hey, Sammy," he says. "Friend of yours?"

Sam stares wide-eyed, mouth dropping open.

"Dean and I talked," Dad continues, stroking a finger down Spooky's back. "So long as one'a you takes care of her, you can keep her until it's time for us to move on."

"And who'll take her in?" Sam asks, walking over to pet her ears.

Dad shrugs. "Part of the responsibility will also be to find her a nice family."

o0o

They stay for five more months. Turns out, Spooky is actually a girl. A local animal charity checks her out, makes sure she's healthy. They also spay her.

One of Dean's girlfriends convinces her parents they need a cat and then the Winchesters drive out of town.

Spooky vanishes the next day, and for the next twenty years, Sam sees a black cat everywhere he goes.


	302. When morning comes, I will finally tell

**Title**: When morning comes, I will finally tell

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Carol Ann Duffy

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 360

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Samuel Campbell & Dean Winchester, Dean follows through on his promise to kill the old man.

* * *

Dean is tired of being betrayed. Tired of looking over his shoulder, waiting for the knife. Family is supposed to be there, loyal and helpful, ready to face down the world. Family isn't supposed to be wielding the knife that severs the spine.

And Samuel, Mama's daddy, that competent hunter Dean met once, not too long ago in the distant past—goddamned Grandpa Campbell is working for a demon.

Using Sam as a weapon at a demon's beck and call.

Dean is so fucking tired of demons. And he may be a year out of the game, but he hunted for twenty-seven years before that, and he spent forty years learning how to make people hurt. Shit, he almost became a demon.

And Grandpa Campbell may've hunted demons, but he sure never learned how to understand them. And whatever he thinks Crowley will give him in the end... well. Samuel's a fool. And he's using Sam in his foolishness.

And this Sam isn't the Sammy that Dean damned himself to Hell for, but Sammy has to be out there somewhere, and someday he'll come home.

And Dean's spent twenty-seven years putting Sammy first. He only spent a year out of the game because Sammy wanted him to.

And Grandpa Campbell, Mama's daddy, he's a threat. Dean knows how to deal with threats.

And, hell, Sam won't even blink this time. He already tried to kill Samuel, but Dean stopped him. And Sam only subsided because Dean told him to.

So, yeah. Sam's out people-watching. Castiel is doing whatever he does. And Samuel is looking at Dean with tired eyes.

"Just do it," he says, guilt weighing every word.

And Dean could make it hurt. He wants to make it hurt. He didn't get the chance to torture Azazel or Gordon or Lucifer, and barely got to play with Alistair, and here, he finally has the chance...

He shoots his grandfather between the eyes, severs his head, and then salts and burns the corpse.

"Dean," Crowley says from behind him, "color me impressed."

Without even looking at him, Dean walks to his car and drives (home) to his brother.


	303. what we know, but have no art to say

**Title**: what we know, but have no art to say

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Dickinson

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:145

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam & (or /) Dean, Sam follows the plea of his father to shoot him as he is possessed by YED in Devil's Trap

* * *

Sam doesn't know if Dean's alive. Colt in one hand, pointed at Dad, he tries to find Dean's pulse.

"Sammy, shoot me in the heart," Dad gasps, straining to keep the demon at bay. "Kill me, son."

Blinking tears away, Sam stands and takes aim. He doesn't want to, can barely do it, but—

"_Now_, Sam!"

He pulls the trigger.

(He rushes Dean to the nearest hospital. While Dean's in emergency surgery, Sam returns to the cabin for the clean-up.

It's a month before Dean's well enough to walk out under his own power.

And Sam feels guilty for feeling relief that Dean doesn't remember the last week leading up to that night. He still thinks Dad is out there, hunting the demon. Sam isn't sure how to tell him that both are gone for good.

So, for the longest time, he doesn't.)


	304. six words

**Title**: six words

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish, spoilers for up to season 6

**Pairings**: gen or wincest

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 300

**Point of view**: third

**Note**: prompts will be in bold

* * *

**SPN, Dean, Sam's 6 most favourite things ever**

Used to be freedom.  
Always Dean.

**Supernatural, Sam/Dean, when Dean gets jealous**

Four (forty) years, and he wasn't...

**Supernatural, John, he's told his young boys will one day save us all**

"What do you see?"  
"Our hope."

**Supernatural, Dean, Red**

Alistair's uniform: skin, bone, and blood  
"Dean, kiddo. You look... so pretty."  
Sticky and sweet and warm and...  
First papercut after hell: he vomits.

**Supernatural, Dean/Sam, Denial**

Not in Egypt; not a river.  
So many years wasted. No more.  
Not Heaven. Not Hell. Just home.

**Supernatural, Sam, Children**

"You've always been my favorite, Sammy."  
Yellow-Eyes is a liar, has to be.  
They're all so _young_-not him.

**Supernatural, Dean, Screaming for vengeance**

Writhing, he buries himself deep, planning.

**Supernatural, Sam/Brady, he's a killer**

"You always knew. You liked it."

**Supernatural, Dean, Last man standing**

He never thought he'd outlive Sammy.

**Supernatural, Sam, Looking up**

His brother used to be taller.

**Supernatural, Dean, Enter sandman**

He checks the closet every night.

**Supernatural, Sam, I belong to the hurricane**

Fury, and wind, and-  
_Dean_  
-gone.

**Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, Entrance**

"Gotta say, your entrance? Was _awesome_."

**Supernatural, Dean/Sam, Once upon a time...**

... your brother outside, now, Dean, go!  
Cling tight, downstairs, _never let go_

**Supernatural, Dean/Sam, Winter**

December, not September, but he's home.


	305. triple goddess

**Title**: triple goddess

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 330

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: any; Maiden, Mother, Crone

* * *

_seventeen_

She meets John while in line at the movie theater. Dad has a hunt lined up tomorrow and he's taking her for the first time, and Mom has told her this doesn't need to be her life, but she has to try it first.

She knows her last innocence will be lost tomorrow and this is her final hurrah. A movie, out with girls who go to her school, girls who don't know the truth and wouldn't believe it if they did. A normal night for a teenager. A night she's never had before and most likely won't again.

And there is John, buying tickets to the same movie, and he looks so young and so tired at the same time. Like Dad, after a hard hunt.

So she smiles at him, and he smiles back.

o0o

_twenty-seven_

Dean is a bundle of energy in Batman pajamas. He's always into something, follows John around in excitement, but he runs back to Mary the moment her attention is elsewhere.

She has the most basic wards around the house, but her uncles snuck in and set up the same ones that her parents had up. The wards didn't help much then and won't now, she knows.

There are other things in place, though, older things. Things she found during sleepless nights while her parents burned and John slept.

She watches Dean with a smile and wants another baby to hold, because Dean is always hurrying somewhere.

o0o

_forever_

Mary Winchester will never grow old. She is eternally twenty-nine, with a little boy and an infant, with a husband who loves her come what may and a demon after her son.

But there are older things out there. Things of blood and iron, of salt and dust. Things that were before demons and angels, things that will be long after Lucifer's tantrum plays out.

There are forces beyond Hell and beyond Heaven, and Mary Winchester knew them. And her sons know them, too.


	306. sunlight and silence

**Title**: sunlight and silence

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU preseries

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:210

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John, he almost let his boys live

* * *

It breaks his heart. He survived Nam, and he survived Mary, but this, _this_.

Elkins had sworn up one side and down the other that he killed the last vampire a dozen years ago.

If John doesn't kill himself at dawn after burning his sons, after _hunting_ his sons, after that fucking vampire that _wasn't extinct_ turned Sammy and let him loose to turn Dean—if John survives till tomorrow night, he'll take a deep breath, tell Mary to wait a little longer, whisper _goodbye_ to the best boys the world ever saw, and then he'll point his car to the north and he'll drive straight through to Colorado and the lying scum that let his boys become monsters.

If John sees tomorrow night. But Dean's out there, and Sammy, and he taught them everything they know and he loves them so much, and they wouldn't want to live like monsters, his baby boys, Mary's darlings, they _wouldn't want_ to live like this.

He has to hunt them. He has to put them down.

And if he survives laying them to rest, then he'll go see Elkins.

And Elkins, that lying bastard—he'll pay the debt in full, for that gaping wound where the Winchester boys used to be.


	307. all roads lead to Golgotha

**Title**: all roads lead to Golgotha

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: preseries AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 315

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Sam & Dean, Mary and John both died the night of the fire; how do Sam and Dean's lives turn out?

* * *

Mrs. Roesen from next door sits with them while the firemen battle the fire. Dean hasn't said a word and Sammy is crying, and Mrs. Roesen tried to take Sammy away, but Dean refused to let go, so she pulls Dean into her lap and supports them both.

She tells Dean everything will be okay. Mommy and Daddy haven't come out, so Dean doesn't believe her.

o0o

Mrs. Cobal says she'll find them somewhere to stay, somewhere with a new mommy and daddy, and a nice family will take them home and love them.

People keep taking Sammy away, and Dean tries to follow, but he's so little and everyone is so big, and Sammy screams and screams, calling for Mommy and Daddy and Dean in his little baby voice, and Dean wants to answer, wants to scream back, because no one else understands Sammy. But even though Dean opens his mouth, nothing will come out.

The doctor says he's fine, but Dean knows that's a lie. He can't be fine. Mommy and Daddy haven't come to save them yet.

o0o

Mr. and Mrs. Stein take Sammy away on a Thursday. They leave Dean behind.

o0o

On his fifteen birthday, Dean leaves the home. He hasn't forgotten his mom or dad, though the memories are blurred and faded by time. Mostly, he remembers Mom's laughter and the strength of Dad's hands.

Mostly, he remembers a screaming baby and a roaring fire. He remembers Sammy, who'd be ten now.

The yellow-eyed man in Dean's dreams has told him to find his baby brother, to keep him safe. The yellow-eyed man has plans for them, plans that will help the world.

Dr. Daren has told Dean to ignore the yellow-eyed man. Has said he isn't real.

Dean knows better, though, because the yellow-eyed man has promised that Sammy is waiting for him and they can be a family again.


	308. our love song of pain

**Title**: our love song of pain

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John +or/ any, what could have broken him in Hell

* * *

He laughed his way through their first session, smirking up at Alistair with bloody teeth. Alistair didn't react, though, just kept on carving with steady hands, humming Ave Maria.

Each time after that, Alistair changed things up, and John would laugh as often as he screamed. And Alistair would smile and hum, and he'd say, "See you tomorrow, Johnny."

John had known what he was getting into, when he made that deal. He remembered his sons, Mary's boys, and he knew that whatever Hell threw at him, it couldn't be as bad as that first night after the fire. Couldn't be as bad as Dean in that bed, dying by inches.

Then Alistair came to him and said, "Meet my pet, Johnny. She's lovely."

And it was a trick, it _had_ to be a trick, because Mary-his beautiful, vibrant Mary-couldn't be in Hell.

She was holding a razor, and she was smiling.


	309. holding all the cards

**Title**: holding all the cards

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 430

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural; Meg/Dean; he's going to hate himself in the morning, but right now he's just so _homesick_.

* * *

Sam's asleep. Wore himself out completely, caught up in guilt. Started the apocalypse, gonna wear Satan to the prom—yeah, he's trying to even the scale. Stupid kid.

Dean still hasn't told him it wasn't entirely his fault. Sam's not ready to listen.

Dean goes for a walk, to a nice little abandoned building he scouted this morning. He's already left all the supplies, and this may be the stupidest thing he's ever done. In both lives.

Alastair's dead. So's Azazel, that old yellow-eyed bastard. The both of them, they were masters, and Dean, Dean _learned_. Even before he thought he was, he learned from Azazel. And he licked up everything Alistair let slip, every twist, every trick, he watched and he marveled and he screamed, whimpered, howled.

But demons, they don't really have imagination. A million years in the Pit and all of Alastair's methods were things Dean remembered from research. Humans invented torture and demons refined it, and Dean writhed beneath Alistair, and then Alistair handed him a razor and let him loose.

But Alistair's dead now. And Dean's a goddamned moron (God damned him, yes siree Bob), but he sketches out the sigil in his blood and murmurs the summoning.

"What do you want?" Meg demands, wearing a red-head this week. Her hair's in pigtails and she looks about twenty, if that. She stays at the edge of the room, prepared to attack or flee, and Dean smiles at her.

She was acting all brave last time they met, tormenting him with Bobby's body while he was still reeling, but now, now they're on _his _terms.

"Let me play with you," he says, imbuing the words with a tone he hasn't used since Castiel gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition.

Her flabbergasted reaction is beautiful. He's still smiling.

"Just for a few hours," he continues, "and then I'll let you go. We're old friends, ain't we, Meg?"

Now she's frightened, the scent of fear on the air. Damn, but it's so pretty. He's missed this, more than he'd thought.

He's such a monster, now, Alistair's brightest star. Shouldn't have left Hell.

"If I play with you," Meg says, tone strengthening, "what do I get?"

Thinks she's in control now. Thinks he's crazy and she'll get both Winchesters with one blow. He can see every thought crossing her little demon-smoke mind.

But he's not Sam, and she's not Ruby, and they're sitting at his table while he holds all the cards.

"You get to live, sweetheart," he says, and it might not even be a lie.


	310. I wanna grow something wild and unruly

**Title**: I wanna grow something wild and unruly

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. title from The Dixie Chicks

**Warnings**: AU; pre-series

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 845

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: irnan, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth

**Prompt 1**: When Dean is four, he finds a dragon's egg in the back yard. Mommy shows him how to hatch it out.

**Prompt 2**: egghead

* * *

She's in the kitchen, preparing Dean's lunch—ham and cheese sandwich, no crust, small cup of apple juice, half a banana, and two chocolate chip cookies—when he comes bouncing in, something cradled in his hands.

"Lookit what I found, Mommy!" he says, eyes shining, face lit up like when he first met the neighbor's lab puppy.

Mary crouches, expecting a frog or roly-poly, even a small garter snake. He's come home with all those before, and more.

But no. In her son's small, dirt-covered hands is an off-white, pulsing dragon Egg.

Mary mutters a very nasty four-letter word and Dean gasps, "Mommy!"

o0o

After taking the Egg from Dean and sitting him down to lunch, Mary goes back outside and stares at it.

A dragon Egg. Here.

It pulses, gleaming brightly. It's so close to hatching… she should call someone, Martin or Marianne, or even Father. The Recall had always been their job. Mary was only a Finder, searching out the Eggs.

"Mommy," Dean yells, rushing back outside, cookie crumbs on his shirt. "Is the baby out?"

She scoops him up, holding him back. "No, Dean," she says. "Don't touch it."

He pouts at her. "I found it."

Mary cocks her head. "How, Dean?" she asks.

He shrugs, looking back at the Egg. "I was jus' diggin' and then I found it." He squirms, trying to get down. "C'mon, Mommy," he says. "It's not gonna hurt us!"

She reaches out with her right hand, tilting his chin up to meet her eyes. "How do you know that, sweetling?" Her voice is soft.

He blinks those large eyes identical to her own. "'cause it's tellin' me."

Mary sighs. Of course, her life could never be simple.

o0o

She lets Dean carry the Egg in, gently like something precious. He whispers to it, rubbing it clean with the damp cloth she gives him, then makes it a small nest of towels. He settles next to the Egg on his bed, and Mary leans against the doorway.

She really should have known escape wouldn't last.

o0o

Dean falls asleep, one hand on the Egg. That's the final piece of evidence: Dean is not just a Finder, or a Recaller. He's Bonded.

"Ah, shit," she whispers, placing one hand on Dean's forehead, the other touching the Egg. "I wanted your life to be simple, sweetling."

She kisses him gently and leaves, to wait for John.

The past has come calling, and he needs to be prepared.

o0o

The Egg hatches over a year after Dean finds it. He never wavered in his faith that it would, and Mary is so proud of her boy. He spent any time he could with the Egg, talking to it, reading it stories(as best he could), and asking questions. She knows he actually heard answers.

She's proud of John, too. He showed the depth of his love by accepting her wild tales of dragons and staying.

They are all three there when the Egg hatches and a small, wet, emerald green dragonet forces its way out.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly, holding out a hand. The dragon chirps and stumbles its way over to him; Dean gently picks it up.

Dean turns to Mary and John, smiling bright enough to light up the world. "I got a lil' brother!"

John's mouth is slack in shock. Mary kneels down in front of her baby boy and kisses his forehead. "Let's get Sammy some food, huh?"

Dean nods excitedly. "He wants milk, Mommy. And somethin' called viniesen?"

"Venison," Mary corrects, standing back up. "Deer." She walks past John, Dean carefully following. "Get some towels please, honey? We'll be in the kitchen."

John blinks. "A dragon."

Mary smiles.

* * *

The dragonet stayed close to Dean. Mary smiled at how careful her little boy was; the dragonet was much more likely to hurt Dean than the other way around. Even his baby talons and fangs were sharper than any blades. But the dragonet kept his claws tucked under whenever Dean picked him up and carted him around like a kitten.

The dragonet was green, dull or bright depending on his mood. He ate anything Dean gave him, so Mary made sure to have a talk about appropriate food.

When the dragonet was two weeks old, he shifted for the first time, becoming a human infant. His hair was the same dark shade as John's and his eyes fluctuated between bright green and Dean's own hazel.

John kept watching the dragonet in human form, but Sammy—as Dean called him—didn't change back.

So John and Mary had a new son, a powerful ally that would be raised as Dean's brother.

Then the dark dragon visited and Mary's wards weren't enough, and John—would he keep Sammy without her to explain the Bond? In her last moment before the fire twisted and locked, Mary saw Dean holding a six-month-old human infant and the shadow of bright wings over both.

_Yes_, she knew in that moment. Sammy was Dean's and Dean was Sammy's, and nothing could tear them apart now.


	311. picking Heaven's Gate

**Title**: Pick-picking Heaven's gate

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Castiel & Dean; _somebody_ accidently left the keys of the Kingdom inside heaven, and now they're locked out of St. Peter's Gate. Castiel needs Dean's help breaking in.

* * *

"Of course you'd forget the keys," Dean huffs, "because this is my life."

"Dean," Castiel intones, "this is a solemn occasion. Please, have the proper decorum."

"Dude, shut up," Dean says. "I'm _picking_ the lock to _Heaven_ because you're the little angel who forgot the _goddamn keys_."

"Dean!" Castiel hisses. "Do not _blaspheme_ just outside _Heaven's Gates_!"

Dean pulls back from the lock to stare at him. Castiel very nearly blushes.

After a moment, Dean goes to picking the lock while Castiel stands solemnly at his shoulder.

"My life," Dean mutters. "How is this my life?"

The Gate swings open.


	312. You came into my heart today

**Title**: You came into my heart today and didn't know it

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from James Humphrey

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: pre-Gabriel/Sam, one-sided Lucifer/Sam, very much pre-Dean/Castiel, past-Lucifer/Michael

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 520

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel, any. Vampire!AU; Sam wonders how the hell Gabriel can be a Master Vampire.

* * *

He didn't see it, at first, not at all. Gabriel said, _call me Gabe_, and while he wasn't scrawny, he was short. _Conveniently pocket-sized,_ Dean chortled, and then, _Don't forget, Sammy, even the Jolly Green Giant is a midget next to you_.

Dean ducked Sam's retaliatory smack and left the room, laughing. Sam just continued to sit there, pondering the Master Vampire who was busying courting him with chocolate and certain annoyances removed. (Not that anyone could prove Gabriel was responsible, but Sam knew.)

Gabriel wasn't like Lucifer, or Uriel. Even Raphael, with his hospital for the poor, was… well, _scary_. But Gabriel?

Lucifer tried courting Sam, once. He was considered _the _Master Vampire, the one the rest bowed to, when push came to shove. The deciding factor in all warfare, the final voice in all choices as a race. His previous mate, Michael, had left in a huff, starting his own empire in California. Loyalties had been divided for awhile, but luckily the vampires kept it all in-house. Humans had only known because a lesser thrall of Michael's, Anachel, had gotten drunk with a reporter. (Both of them were dealt with, of course. But not before the damage had been done.)

Anyway, Lucifer tried, but Sam said no. Very determinedly, Sam had said no. And when Lucifer didn't seem inclined to listen… well.

Sam is a researcher in vampire biology and culture. He's respectable and generally well-liked. But Dean? Dean's a _Hunter_, the kind who takes offense when vampires don't respect boundaries. The kind that police don't sanction and the government turns a blind eye to. The kind that vampires have tried to wipe out before, and Dean took out half a dozen of Lucifer's highest-ranked minions before Lucifer got the message. He'd have taken out Lucifer, if it wouldn't have created a terrible power vacuum, and if Lucifer hadn't backed off his baby brother. (Sam knows Dean still thinks about him like that, sometimes. It's annoying, but kind of sweet.)

So, Lucifer backed off and Sam had really thought that might be the end of it. But now Gabriel was courting him, and Sam really couldn't see it. Gabriel smiled too much to be a Master.

Sam didn't say no. He let himself be charmed by Gabriel. And then, something happened one night. Dean's contacts said that one of Gabriel's favorite brothers, younger than him, one he'd helped teach, years and years ago, was hurt in some bullshit battle between Azazel (Lucifer's Blade) and Zachariah (Michael's Voice).

_Castiel_, Dean said. _Gabriel's kid brother. He's pretty, for a fang._

Gabriel secreted Castiel away somewhere, pulled Sam down for a quick kiss, and went to visit his oldest brother, _the _Master Vampire Lucifer.

In that moment, seeing the rage in Gabriel's eyes—for the first time, Sam also saw the power. There was nothing bumbling or cute in Gabriel at all. It was Dean, storming into Lucifer's headquarters, killing everything that got in his way.

_You'd better come back,_he called after Gabriel.

Gabriel smirked over his shoulder, blowing a kiss.

If Gabriel came back, Sam thought he might even say yes.


	313. gone here now

**Title**: gone here now

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: written just after 5.10

**Pairings**: Sam/Dean-ish, but could simply be read as canon unhealthy codependency

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 840

**Point of view**: third

**Notes**: written awhile ago; I was unhappy with it, so I ignored it and let it languish on my computer. Not exactly AU, I don't think, but not really canon either. I think it might be too schoompy, but what the hell, yeah?

* * *

"I'm not yours, Sammy," he says. "I belong to the world."

"Dean," Sam calls, stretching out to grip Dean's shoulder, but Dean moves away without looking.

"I never wanted this," Dean tells him. "I just wanted to save people, hunt things. I don't—how did it get this far off the reservation?"

"Dean?" Sam asks. "Dude, what are you doin'?"

Still not looking at him, Dean says, "Before you, I was nothing. But I'm not yours." He steps closer to the edge and Sam reaches again, but Dean shifts just out reach. "Remember, Sammy," Dean says. "I had to. If I do, maybe you'll be safe."

He smiles, turning to meet Sam's eyes, and then he steps off the edge.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, lunging for him, but Dean's already gone.

o0o

"Sam! Sammy!" he heard as he jolted awake. "Sam, calm down. I'm right here."

Sam clutched Dean tight, pulling him close. Dean grunted and winced, but didn't pull away.

His first vision since Azazel died and it won't come to pass. Fingers clenched in Dean's shirt, head tucked beneath Dean's chin, breathing in tandem with his brother, he swore: Dean won't throw himself off anything to save Sam. Sam would die first.

Sam would say _yes_ first.

"Sam," Dean said quietly. "What did you see?"

He shook his head, trying to burrow further in, all the way past Dean's skin, into his soul. Maybe then they'd both be safe forever, out of reach of all the greedy, grasping angels.

"Sam," Dean said again. "Tell me."

"Why do we have to sacrifice so much?" Sam demanded, the words muffled by Dean's chest. "Why us?"

"Sammy," Dean whispered gently, pushing him far enough away to look in his eyes. "If it's this bad, I need to know."

"It won't happen," Sam promised, cupping Dean's face in his hands, holding them eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. "It won't happen, so it doesn't matter."

Dean smiled sadly, covering Sam's hands with his own. "You can't be sure of that."

Sam closed his eyes, leaning forward until Dean fully supported him. "I won't let it," he says. "I won't let it, so it doesn't matter."

Dean sighed, rearranging them both to be more comfortable. "We'll talk about this when the sun's up," he muttered. "I'm too tired right now."

Sam didn't want to sleep ever again, but as Dean's breath evened out, he slipped under, too.

o0o

Lucifer waits with a smile, holding a rose petal in the palm of his hand. "Together," he says, "we can protect him forever." Lucifer turns his palm over and the petal flutters to the ground.

Sam watches it hit the dirt, closing his eyes as blood pools around it.

"He is yours," Lucifer murmurs. "And that which is yours… is mine." Sam tries not to listen, but as Lucifer continues, he feels the words in his bones. "I protect what is mine, Sam. I protect it and I cherish it and I make sure no brutish archangels rape it until everything that makes it wonderful and unique is gone."

Shaking his head, Sam covers his ears with his hands. "You're a liar," he mutters. "The Tempter. I can't trust you."

"Sam, that hurts," Lucifer says. "Your brother has a self-sacrificing streak. I'm sure you've noticed. He doesn't think he's worth anything." Lucifer gently pulls Sam's hands from his head and looks up at him with sincere, kind eyes. "We can keep him safe, Sam. Just say _yes_ and I'll cherish him forever."

Sam wants to believe him. He can still see Dean stepping off the edge and it terrifies him. But a lifetime of learning tells him Satan cannot be trusted.

Lucifer touches his face. "Have I lied to you yet, Sam?"

"No," Sam admits. "But you hurt Dean."

Shaking his head, Lucifer says, "He made me angry, Sam. And he was fine, wasn't he?"

Sam glares and takes a large step back. "I'll save him myself," he snarls. "I don't need you."

Lucifer smiles, and it's aching and sad and full of promise. "You'll say yes to me, Sam. Whether it's before or after your brother sacrifices himself is up to you."

o0o

He woke again, wrapped around his brother, clinging so tight he felt Dean breathe.

Sam had kept his visions from happening before and he'd do it again. He refused to say goodbye to his brother another time.

"Sammy," Dean muttered, trying to shift away, but Sam didn't let go.

"It won't happen, Dean, I promise," he said. "No matter what."

_You once swore that he wouldn't go to Hell,_ Lucifer whispered in his mind. _And he spent years in my kingdom. You couldn't save him then, and you'll need my help to save him now._

Sam rested his head on Dean's back and whispered, "I'll save you this time. I swear I will."

If it came down to Dean's life or saying _yes_—he would consent. And if they ever stood on that cliff and Dean threw himself over—Sam would follow, and they'd build wings as they fell.


	314. I'm a kid in a rowboat

**Title**: I'm a kid in a rowboat and you're the sea

**Fandom**: Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 105

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: gredunza

* * *

Dean used to read Dr. Seuss to Sammy, back when Sammy was small enough to crawl in his lap and his name was bigger than himself. Sam's favorite was _Green Eggs and Ham_—no surprise there. Dean wasn't such a big fan of that one, but only because Sam picked it every night.

Sam got older, learned to read, and discovered murder mysteries. He used to complain about the endings being obvious and Dean acted sympathetic, but he really didn't care. Dean didn't have time to read.

He still misses Sammy curling up with him, looking at the pictures, laughing at Sam I Am.


	315. This is not farewell

**Title**: This is not farewell

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Denise Levertov

**Warnings**: AU during season 1

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 155

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Dean + Sam, He went numb 10 minutes ago but he still moans and bitches like it hurts so his brother doesn't realize how serious a wound it is this time.

* * *

They're limping back to his baby and he's still muttering about getting blood on the upholstery, still wincing at each step, still pretending like it hurts.

It doesn't hurt anymore. He can't feel his leg, or his side, the horrific rips in his skin or the sharp burn that should be there.

He's not gonna make it to the motel room, much less a hospital. Been back together for less than a year, and he's already dying on Sammy. Fucking sucks.

"Dean," Sam says. "We're almost there."

"I know," Dean murmurs. He should warn the kid. Let him know it doesn't matter. It's not his fault. (It isn't. Sam's the most important thing in the world. Dean would die for him a thousand times over.)

Dean's breath catches. His feet slip, and only Sam's grip keeps him from the ground. "Dean?" Sam says. "Dean!"

"Sa…"

There are so many things he wishes he'd said.


	316. There is mud on my feet

**Title**: There is mud on my feet

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 115

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: footprints

* * *

"Dean Winchester!" Mommy yells. "What have I told you about wipin' your feet?"

Dean laughs, trying to muffle it with his fists. He's crouched in the back of the hall closet.

They're playing hide-and-seek, but Mommy doesn't know it. She's been busy with Sam all afternoon, so Dean's trying to make her smile. Playing's fun.

He can hear the laughter in her voice as she says, "Muddy boys have to take baths, Dean. Gotta wash the mud-monsters, find the boys underneath."

She opens the door and Dean shrieks, jumping at her. She catches him, swings him into her arms.

"Bath time," Mommy says. She's smiling.

Dean hugs her neck, glad his plan worked.


	317. lil tumbleweed

**Title**: 'lil tumbleweed

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers up to season 4

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 170

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: tumbleweed

* * *

By the time he's twenty, Dean's been to forty-eight states. Some he's lived in, but some he's just driven through. He prefers the south 'cause it's warmer longer, and the people are usually friendlier. Plus, he blends in more.

Sammy talks about New England and the West Coast and the future. For creative writing, his junior year, he writes a poem he calls Tumbleweed. Dean reads over it for him and tells him it's good, but missing a spark. Sam, annoyed, tells him to do it better.

Sam gets a B on the poem, and Dean never shows him the few lines he'd jotted down.

When Dean is in Hell and Sam's drunk, he finds a battered folder in the trunk. On a scrap of paper, in messy handwriting and faded ink, Sam reads,

_lil' tumbleweed_

_blown by exhaust and uncaring breeze_

_watch the sky,_

_if you please—_

_i'm there, too_

_in salty air from the coast_

_and stale wind from the Midwest_

_you're not alone_

'_lil tumbleweed_

_it's my journey, too_

.


	318. roll back the stone

**Title**: roll back the stone

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for up to season 2

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 135

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: return

* * *

Three days. That's how long Sam was dead.

The first day and night, Dean knelt in the dirt and held Sam, crying and caressing the back of his head, begging him to come back.

The second day, Dean moved him to an old building, put him on a bed, and cleaned him. He didn't say a word to Bobby and didn't notice anything but the blood. That night, he curled up next to his baby brother and sang a lullaby.

The third day, Bobby told him it was time to lay Sam to rest. Dean screamed at him. Dean cried some more. He confessed to Sam that he had no idea what to do.

That night, Dean made a deal. If he'd known what it would lead to… he'd make it again all the same.


	319. live while you can the merciful illusion

**Title**: live while you can the merciful illusion

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from C. Day-Lewis

**Warnings**: pre-series

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 320

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for dodger_winslow

* * *

John is just off a two-week, labor-intensive, _messy_ hunt, and he comes home to one sulking boy and another who's furious.

He collapses on the couch with a deep, aching sigh. He's still sore all over. And so tired. He really wants to crawl into bed, ignore both his teenagers, and sleep for a month and a half.

Sam's brooding in the boys' room; Dean is silently throwing together a supper of leftovers. John has no idea what happened between them, less of an idea how to fix it, and little inclination to try while they're both being so stubborn.

Mary would've locked them in a room and not let them out until they'd made up. If John tried that, they'd unite against him. He could probably ignore the problem until it went away; given a little time, they usually come around.

"Dinner!" Dean calls. "Dad, you hungry?"

"Sam!" John hollers. "Come eat!"

Sam stomps into the kitchen, ignoring John and Dean both. He throws himself into the chair, crosses his arms, and scowls at the world.

John lumbers in, trying to work out the kinks in his spine. He hasn't been this tired since Dean was a colicky baby.

Dean serves three plates; he gently sets John's down in front of him, but slams down Sam's.

John's too tired to carry a conversation, so the meal is silent. Sam tries to storm out halfway through, but sits down (sulkily) off John's look.

After supper, as Dean collects all three plates, John says, "I expect this to be done in the mornin'." He fixes them both with glares. "Understand, boys? I don't have the time or energy to deal with this crap, so work it out."

He trudges down the hall, takes a long shower, and goes to bed.

(In the morning, Dean and Sam are laughing with each other again. John never does find out what the argument was about.)


	320. a curse lifted falls elsewhere

**Title**: a curse lifted falls elsewhere

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from C. Day-Lewis

**Warnings**: preseries; spoilers for everything aired

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 195

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for mercuryblue144

* * *

Mary Winchester has never fired a gun or recited a spell or salted and burned a corpse. Mary Winchester has never hunted a nightmare or been stalked in return.

Mary Winchester is the loving wife of a veteran who works twenty hours a week at a small boutique and raises two rambunctious boys.

There are no demons in Mary Winchester's life. Her husband never learns the name _Azazel_. Neither of her sons go to Hell or break Seals or come face-to-face with angels.

_Isn't that the life you want?_ Crowley purrs. _Make a deal._

_Show me how it ends, _she commands.

Crowley growls, but before she was Mary Winchester, she was a Campbell, and descended from the maker of The Colt. Crowley shows her how it ends.

World on fire. Oceans of blood. Death covering the Earth, Destruction in his wake.

_No_, she says, turning away_. I'll make no deal for my life._

Crowley scoffs, _As you wish_, and disappears.

John is asleep down the hall, Sam on his chest. Dean's on the couch, tuckered out from a full day's adventuring.

Mary will die in a week's time, and she'll never regret it.


	321. I do not fear it: I have been there

**Title**: I do not fear it: I have been there

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath

**Warnings**: I haven't seen most of season 6; spoilers for it, nonetheless

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 190

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Sam, he remembers the cage, but doesn't have the heart (yet) to tell Dean he wants to go _back_...

* * *

The cage was silent. He _knew _that Lucifer and Michael and Adam were there somewhere, but it was silent and still, and it wasn't too hot or too cold, and it was slightly dark like early evening, and he felt at peace.

The world wasn't on his shoulders. He'd saved Dean. Locked Lucifer away again, stopped the apocalypse, and he could rest, now.

He wasn't a threat to anyone in the cage.

But he's out of the cage. Lucifer and Michael aren't (he'd _know_) and he has no idea what happened to Adam (poor kid, his little _brother_), and angels and demons are still playing them, and it's his responsibility again.

He can't tell Dean. He can't even think of how to phrase the words, how to tell the one person who has ever really mattered (the man who was tortured for years in his place) that he _wants to go back_.

He wants to crawl back into that cage with the Devil and God's Sword and the youngest Winchester brother, and he wants to cocoon himself in the peace he felt there.

And he can never _ever_ tell Dean.


	322. The anguish of a last embrace

**Title**: The anguish of a last embrace

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Lord Byron

**Warnings**: preseries to season 2

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 275

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Any, any, gather up your tears / put them in your pocket / save them for a time when you're really gonna need them

* * *

When Dean was four, his mother died in a fire. He didn't understand death then; he just knew that Mommy was gone, and Daddy wasn't right, and Sammy needed something, so Dean got him everything he could think of.

Dean asked for Mommy once. Daddy reacted badly, and Dean never asked again.

0o0

Dad had a lot of bad days. Sam had a lot of bratty days. Dean really wished the twain would never meet, but nothing really cared what he wanted, so he gritted his teeth and took care of the two stubborn idiots to the best of his ability.

And if that meant he got shoved to the back most of the time, well. Them's the breaks, so he manned up and fucking dealt with it.

Personal days were few and far between, but he had a family to take care of.

0o0

Dad died.

Died, after Dean had a miracle.

Yeah.

Despite what Sam thought, Dean was not a moron.

Two plus two equaled four, and Dean should've died instead.

Dean took a deep breath and beat the shit out of his car because he wanted to sob, to crawl into Daddy's arms, to cling to Mommy's neck, to be the child he never got the chance to be.

0o0

Sam died. In Dean's arms.

There, in the mud, Sam's blood on his hands, Bobby standing guard, holding his baby brother, Dean closed his eyes.

He hadn't cried for Mommy. Not even really for Daddy, not yet.

But Sammy…

He was kneeling in the rain, on a muddy road, and Sammy was dead in his arms, and Dean couldn't be strong anymore.

So he wept.


	323. I know an ending when it comes

**Title**: I know an ending when it comes

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: post-season 6; future!fic AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 195

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Dean/any, the one thing he thought he'd never get and yet he did

* * *

Sam's alive and has a soul. Cas is a juiced-up human who can hear the major news bulletins in Heaven. Bobby's retired to full-time research and training a few new pups on hunting. Lisa's met someone new (someone _safe_) and Ben sends Dean emails every week. Crowley's taken the reins of Hell (better the slimy scumbag you know).

There's a road waiting, a brother sitting shotgun, and a one-time guardian angel in the backseat.

Life is too good to be real. Dean pauses next to his baby, one hand on her hood. Sam's discussing something arcane and potentially dangerous with Cas, and Dean looks out toward the horizon.

_Your father is a very persuasive man, Dean,_ a voice whispers in his mind. _You and your brother will not be bothered again by the machinations of Heaven or Hell. Castiel will stay with you for as long as you both live._

He knows that voice.

_Like I said,_ the voice continues, _writing is hard. But I finally know how your story ends._

Dean shakes his head. The open road is calling, Sam and Cas are waiting, and there's a poltergeist two towns over.

Life is good.


	324. the day of my destiny is over

**Title**: the day of my destiny is over

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Lord Byron

**Warnings**: takes place in season 6; torture

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 135

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Sam, hell is no place for anyone who has no taste for the sight of blood

* * *

He's chained on his knees, hands crossed at his back, blood pooling around him.

"Well, well," Alistair's replacement purrs, walking up and caressing his head. "The pupil's brother. Our Lord's Vessel. You're cuter than I thought."

So much blood. Dripping from his mouth, oozing from his pores. An ocean of blood, and still more.

He never did like the sight of it. The stench. Dad told him to get used to it. Dean didn't think it was that bad. Sam wishes he were still in the cage, still wrapped in Lucifer's warmth and Michael's light.

"Pretty eyes," the replacement murmurs, crouching down in front of him, trailing fingers in the blood and licking it off. "Tastes like Heaven."

Sam keeps silent, gaze on the blood until he closes his eyes. He can still smell it.


	325. brighter once amidst the host of angels

**Title**: brighter once amidst the host of angels, than that star the stars among

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for up to season 3; attempted non-con

**Pairings**: John/Mary; almost OMC/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 680

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean has a secret that Hunters would kill him if they knew about.

* * *

Dean Winchester lives an unremarkable, ordinary life. He's firmly mediocre in every way, with boring hair and boring clothes and boring glasses. The only thing going for him are his eyes: they're searing hazel, the only thing his mother gave him before she split, taking his baby brother with her. Dad never really got over that. Dean never lived up to her memory and Dad drank himself to death in Dean's sophomore year of high-school, condemning Dean to foster care.

Dean didn't make trouble and got out relatively unscathed. He lived with two families in the three years before graduation; one foster brother hated him and made his life hell for a month and a half before _something_ happened to him. He was in the middle of twisting Dean's wrist when he suddenly let go, eyes wide and mouth dropping open, and then he turned and ran and never looked at Dean again, for the rest of his eight months with the family.

_Something_ followed Dean from that house all the way through graduation and then to college. Dean ignored the _something_ fiercely, firmly plodding along his way, boringly in the middle.

Bad things generally happen to those who bother Dean. Those who anger him, annoy him. His junior year of college, a guy two rooms down the hall tried to coerce him into sex. Even slipped something into Dean's drink.

The _something_ took care of the drug and then paused, waiting.

Dean will never be able to deny that he reached out, not the _something_. That he looked a guy in the eyes and stopped his heart.

But Dean is normal. Nothing special. He graduated college in the middle of his mechanical engineering class, and then he was mediocre in graduate school, too. He does work that's just good enough to keep his job and not quite bad enough to get fired at a mid-sized company, and he greets his coworkers with a smile but doesn't socialize except during office parties.

Sometimes, files are edited or erased, or the _something_ whispers secrets. Dean never rises in the company and doesn't have any friends and he goes home to design revolutionary designs no one ever sees and he writes a thousand-page manuscript about adventures with a brother he never knew and so can't remember.

One morning, when Dean is just past his thirtieth birthday, the _something_ screams at him. He flinches and drops his spatula, turning to face the door.

Someone knocks on it. The _something_ is demanding he run, jump out the window, go far away. Dean walks to the door and opens it.

A man with a gun looks at him. "Come with me," the man says. "Unless you want to worry all your neighbors."

"Who are you?" Dean asks, ignoring the gun.

The _something_ makes him answer. "Gordon Walker."

That name is more familiar than it should be. Gordon Walker is a character in Dean's book.

"You didn't find me," Dean says; he doesn't know why. "I don't exist. You're going back to your hotel and you're going to eat a bullet."

The _something_ is angry. The _something_ makes Gordon Walker go back to his hotel and erase the trail he followed and eat a bullet.

The _something_ tells Dean, _When I give a command, you listen_.

Dean tells the _something_, "Fuck that, and fuck you."

The _something_ laughs. Dean finishes his eggs and heads to work.

Dean Winchester is mediocre, unremarkably ordinary in every way. The only thing special about him at all are his eyes: they're a searing hazel that sometimes look gold.

Everyone at work agrees there's _something_ off about him, but no one really cares enough to make a fuss about it.

(Dean's thirty-three when a gigantor named Sam breaks into his apartment and says, "You're my brother."

The _something_ wails in greeting. Sam's bright green eyes flash bone-white for a moment. Dean smiles.

"Sammy," he says. "Last I saw, you were a tiny little thing."

Sam pulls him into a hug. _Something_ murmurs, _Welcome home._

_Something else_ whispers, _Good to be back_.)


	326. without remorse the ruin of so many

**Title**: without remorse the ruin of so many, glorious once and perfect while they stood

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Milton

**Warnings**: AU; character death

**Pairings**: implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 210

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Michael & Sam, the Devil named Lucifer is gone and all that remains is the new Morningstar

* * *

He is burnt, inside and out, scoured clean of all the taint. Lucifer is gone as if he'd never been, his name ripped from the stars. None may speak of him now, never again.

_The __Morning __Star __has __set,_ Michael announces, the last time anyone will make mention of him for the rest of eternity. _The __Evening __Star __rises._

Sam Winchester sits on a throne in Hell, a white crown on his dark hair, a pack of hounds at his feet, and demons bowed low, far as the eye can see. The Evening Star sees far.

_The __Evening __Star __rises!_ Michael calls to his legions. _Prepare __for __war._

"Cas?" Dean shouts desperately, turning in place to see if he's answered the summons. "Castiel, please! Cas, Cas, c'mon, Cas! I need you. Please, I need you!"

_To __war!_ the Evening Star commands, voice thundering through the deep. _Burn __Heaven __down._

Michael spreads wide his wings, sword in hand. He leads the charge.

Sam meets him head-on, and fights in a way the previous king never did. Michael is not his brother. Michael is easy to kill.

At the end, as Heaven burns, the Evening Star shines brightly, and his brother stares at the sky, waiting for an angel who will never reply.


	327. look down, look down, sweet Jesus doesn'

**Title**: look down, look down, sweet Jesus doesn't care

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Les__Miserables_

**Warnings**: depressing; mentions of character death; spoilers for the beginning of season 7

**Pairings**: implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 205

**Point****of****view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Dean/Cas, _he __put __that __bottle __to __his __head __and __pulled __the __trigger __/ __and __finally __drank __away __[his] __memory __/ __life __is __short, __but __this __time __it __was __bigger __/ __than __the __strength __he __had __to __get __up __off __his __knees_

* * *

Everything Dean loves vanishes like smoke, eaten up by the monsters hounding him from that burning November night.

Everyone Dean loves leaves, willingly or not. A few come back, only to leave again.

Castiel has died and come back almost as many times as Dean, now. He doesn't think Cas has it in him to do it another time.

Drinking does nothing to dull the pain, or regret, or fury. But it's all Dean can do.

It'll be bitterly ironic if that's the thing to get Dean at last, after all the other damned things he's survived. Or resurrected from. But there are no more angels perched on his shoulder. No more angels at all.

He'd offer to make a deal, if he thought any demons were dealing.

He's so tired. The drinking does help him sleep.

So he drinks. And drinks. Hunts. Drinks some more.

He finally has Sammy back, and Castiel is gone. He can't ever seem to really have both at the same time. He'd choose Sam, if ever given the choice. Of course he'd choose Sam.

But he didn't make the choice. And he drinks. And hunts. And wonders which will kill him first, and if it'll at last be the lasting time.


	328. in the deep dark

**Title**: in the deep dark

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: creepy as Hell; partly takes place in Hell

**Pairings**: implied Alistair/Dean, maybe

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 90

**Point****of****view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Lucifer/Sam or Alistair/Dean, _don't __fret, __precious, __I'm __here_...

* * *

_in __the __deep __dark, __master __whispers, __don't __fret __precious, __i'm __here._

_in the deep dark, there is nothing but the voice._

_in the deep dark, master purrs, tell me your name._

_in the __deep __dark, __there __is __no __answer __but __a __scream._

.

Dean opens his eyes, shivering. Sam wakes while he's turning on every light in their motel room and mutters, "Dean, what?"

Dean ignores him, glancing out the window. He stops to watch the sunrise, taking deep breaths and forcing himself into a calm.

He doesn't remember Hell.

He doesn't.


	329. once, there were tigers

**Title**: once, there were tigers

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place in season 4

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 405

**Point****of****view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Castiel + Dean + Sam, The first time Castiel was on earth his vessel was a CaspianTiger, and he became very fond of the species. Castiel is crushed when Sam tells him they went extinct.

* * *

_long long ago, there was a tiger. one day, an angel appeared to the tiger and asked, will you let me join you? there is something i must do, and for it, i need you._

_the tiger considered for one rising and falling of the great star, and then said, yes, bright one._

.

"Jimmy your first ride around Earth?" Dean asks one day, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning.

"No," Castiel answers promptly. "My first was many centuries ago. Humans would call her a... Caspian tiger, I believe."

"Angel vessels don't have to be human?" Sam says.

"Of course not," Castiel tells them. "Some missions could not be completed in human vessels."

"Huh." Dean thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "Cool."

"She did not have a name as you would understand," Castiel reminisces, nearly smiling. "We were together for months, hunting a particularly nasty entity. She was magnificent. I have not yet had the time to visit her descendants."

Sam winces, lowering his head. "That… you can't," he says, almost gently. "I'm sorry, Castiel. Her species went extinct last century."

Castiel tilts head, unblinking. "What do you mean by that?"

Turning to his brother, Sam grasps for the right words, trying to figure out what to say. How does anyone go about explaining to an angel of the Lord why something he remembers fondly is gone?

Dean says, "They all died, Cas." He sets the gun on the table and looks up. "The last one went… when, Sammy?"

"It's not really clear," he says awkwardly. "But, um, the sixties, I think?"

Castiel is silent. He doesn't look at either of them. The room is quiet until he murmurs, "I shall return," leaving in a rush of wings.

Sam has no idea what to say, but Dean covers it all with, "_Shit_."

.

_for many rising and fallings of the great star, the tiger was not alone. the bright one was kind, healing all hurts and keeping the hunger at bay._

_you will be remembered, the bright one promised before leaving. unto the final setting of the great star, I will remember you and what you helped me do._

_the tiger laughed. i will tell my daughters of the dark hunt, and they will tell their daughters – we will not forget you, bright one._

_the angel left as the great star shone bright, and the tiger filled the world with her roar._

.


	330. rend me and redeem

**Title**: rend me and redeem

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU during season 5; character death

**Pairings**: Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 215

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Dean/Castiel,

You know the way Jesus

rips open his shirt  
to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,  
the way he points to it.  
He wants to save me  
but we disagree from what.

My version of hell  
is someone ripping open his shirt  
and saying, Look what I did for you.

(Nick Flynn, "Emptying Town")

* * *

_When Castiel falls, it is an eternity before he hits the ground. His wings are tattered and frayed, his grace torn from his body, and he cannot move. He cannot hear his brothers or sisters, cannot feel Father, cannot see or think or protect himself._

_The scavengers come. He has not the strength to even cry._

.

Gabriel finds him. He says it's an ex-angel thing, and he puts a gentle hand on Castiel's skull.

Dean hits his knees, gun slipping out of his grip. The cannon-fodder demons scatter, sticking to the receding shadows, and Sam sketches a protection sigil onto the air.

_Too late_, Dean thinks, and he wants to believe it's not his fault. But he knows it is. He looks up, meets Gabriel's eyes.

Gabriel fell, too, and he survived. But Gabriel is a trickster, and Castiel was so _good_. Was.

"He did it for you," Gabriel whispers, and the roaring wind steals the words, as Gabriel's presence whirls around them.

_He did it for you. _Dean closes his eyes as Gabriel throws back his head and screams.

.

_**Choose**__, the great voice thunders, filling Castiel until there is room for nothing else. __**Your life or his**__._

_**Give to him all of me**__, Castiel gasps._

_And he screams, and he falls, and he lets go_.


	331. freezing persons, recollect the snow

Title: freezing persons, recollect the snow—first chill, then stupor, then the letting go

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Dickinson

Warnings: pre-series AU; character death

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 65

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural, Any,  
_In the sweetest child there's a vicious streak__  
__In the strongest man there's a child so weak__  
__In the whole wide world there's no magic place__  
__So you might as well rise, put on your bravest face_

* * *

He's on his knees, hands on his belly, bleeding out. There's no way, no how, no chance at all. Dad's down, Sammy's back at the run-down house pouting in his room (thank fuck) and the thing is circling him, licking its chops.

Their info was wrong. So wrong.

But he lifts his head and watches it come. He won't die afraid.

But he does die.


	332. had you twenty lives for sale

Title: had you twenty lives for sale

Disclaimer: not my characters

Warnings: future!fic; AUish; character death

Pairings: none

Rating: PG  
Wordcount: 130

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural, Sam or Dean, one of them dies, but they've both died and come back to life so many times that the other never stops waiting

* * *

Dean goes down, hits his head on the ground, and doesn't get up.

After everything, Sam knows that can't be it.

.

But Dean doesn't get up. Sam tries CPR, tries 911, tries the angel hotline, because Castiel has fixed worse things before.

But Dean doesn't get up. Doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't mutter about little brothers who are big girls or slur out, _Sammy, stopit._

.

Sam doesn't bury or burn him. Because Dean's come back before. Dean always comes back.

Dean never gets up.

Sam never stops waiting, until the time he goes down and bleeds out alone in the basement of a haunted house.

But he opens his eyes, and Dean's there, holding out a hand, and he says, _Hey, Sammy. Long time, no see._

.

Sam never stopped waiting.


	333. the death of faith

Title: the death of faith

Disclaimer: not my characters

Warnings: pre-series

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 38

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was 4 years old

* * *

The Christmas after the fire, all Dean asked Santa for was Mommy.

He woke up Christmas morning to Sammy crying and Daddy stinking of booze.

Mommy was still gone.

Dean didn't believe in Santa or God after that.


	334. dark and unnatural

Title: dark and unnatural

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from _Practical Magic_

Warnings: AU; dark

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 280

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural, Sam, What opened its eyes, when the demon brought Sam Winchester back to life?

* * *

_What's dead should stay dead_ doesn't apply to Sammy.

It should, though. It really should.

.

Dean is so exhilarated that Sam's alive, and they have to deal with Jake, and Bobby keeps watching Sam warily, and Ellen keeps out of reach, and Dean knows, he does, but he could not care less.

Sam's alive.

(Sam's not.)

.

Sam's back is to Dean, as he reads though another obscure text, looking for a way out of the deal that returned his life.

Sam's eyes are paler than ivory. And he doesn't need an obscure text.

.

Sam is not a vessel for Lucifer, and no one knows about the angels yet.

Dean is a vessel for Michael, and the months pass by too swiftly, and it's three weeks, two, one.

It's today.

.

Lilith commands the hounds and they do not move.

Dean looks at Sam with eyes that should see but don't.

Dean will only ever see his little brother when he looks at Sam, whether or not his little brother is alone in the flesh.

Sam holds up a hand and Lilith burns while the hounds scream.

.

Dean looks at his little brother, eyes pale as ivory.

Sam looks at his big brother and smiles.

_What's dead should stay dead_. Worlds die when it doesn't.

But Sam's alive. And so is Dean.

There is no Righteous Man, and no Boy-King of Hell. There are only Winchesters, one bright as a fire and one with eyes the color of bone. There are only brothers, about to burn the world because one is blind when it comes to the other, and the other should never have breathed again after breathing his last.


	335. my fingers burning with thorns

Title: my fingers burning with thorns

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Komunyakaa

Warnings: AUish? Preseries; creepy

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 320

Point of view: third

Prompt: SPN, Dean/Author's choice, Devil May Cry

* * *

_Hey, Dean,_ Mama says.

Dean looks at her, then back at Daddy, asleep on the couch, and at Sammy, babbling to himself by the window, Mr. Cuddles tucked up next to him.

_Mama,_ Dean whispers. _Daddy said you're gone_. They're the first words he's spoken since that night, since _Take your brother outside, fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!_

Daddy had given him Sammy, told him to leave Mama and him behind, and Dean did. He did. He left them and Mama's gone, and Daddy hasn't been the same.

_Oh, baby,_ Mama says, and there are tears on her face, and her hands are gentle and soft on Dean's cheeks as she pulls him in for a hug and a kiss. _Oh, my little boy._

_Mama,_ Dean cries, _Mama, why did you go?_

_Do you remember what I told you every night before bed?_ Mama asks.

Dean nods, and Mama glances around before putting her mouth right by Dean's ear to whisper, _The angels took me away, baby._

_But __**why**__?_ Dean demands, and Daddy startles on the couch, and Sammy looks up from Mr. Cuddles, but Daddy settles and Sammy goes back to his game.

_Because, sweetheart_, Mama says gently, _they didn't want me to tell you the truth._  
She hugs him tight and he clings to her, and Mama tells him everything, about the angel war, and the good son locked away for being right, and the key, hidden deep inside the best of little boys.

_Remember, baby, I wasn't supposed to tell you, but I love you so much. _She hugs him hard. _I love you too much to let you live in the dark_.

_I love you too, Mama,_ he says, and she presses one more kiss to his forehead, murmurs into his skin, _It's our secret, Dean, just for us._

He nods, and Daddy rolls off the couch.

When Dean looks back, Mama is gone.


End file.
